


Only You (Your Promises Made True)

by DashFnanz



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Remus Lupin, Canon Compliant, Epic Friendships, Except the part where Sirius Dies, Feels, First War with Voldemort, Fluff and Angst, Kinda, M/M, Marauders Friendship (Harry Potter), Order of the Phoenix (Harry Potter), POV Remus Lupin, Possibly the Longest SongFic in History, Remus Lupin Needs a Hug, Second War with Voldemort, Sirius Black Lives, Sirius Black Needs a Hug, Sirius Black is his Own Warning, Slow Burn, So many feels oh my god, Songfic, Wartime Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:53:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 37,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25612369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DashFnanz/pseuds/DashFnanz
Summary: Even if he loses faith in everything this world has to offer, he would never doubt the words of this man beside him. He knows better than to question this vow when it's been delivered with such conviction. As much as Sirius can be wrong, when it comes to his promises, he is always proven right."We revolve around each other, Rem. Even if, by chance, I move away, I'll always find my way back to you. Always."Sirius Black is nothing but heartbreak. Remus has no idea what he's in for when he starts a relationship with Sirius, but could it possibly be worth it? After all, no matter what he does, he can't get over Sirius.A WolfStar over the years, through Remus' eyes and through flashbacks. A romance told in four parts.
Relationships: Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 40
Kudos: 19





	1. 1.1 - In Love

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N EDIT (26.09.2020): I've uploaded the cover image for this fic, designed and created by the fabulous Angel (DarkAngelOfSorrowReturns). She has a profile on Tumblr under the name[(darkangelofsorrow)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkAngelOfSorrowReturns/pseuds/DarkAngelOfSorrowReturns), and all her works are straight up _spellbinding_. Go show her some love! She deserves every bit.**
> 
> **A/N EDIT (10.08.2020): I’ve reformatted and re-ordered this, both to make the transitions cleaner, and to make my posting schedule lighter (who am I kidding I have no posting schedule). I don’t think this should be confusing for those who have read this before, but fair warning just the same.**  
> 
> 
> Heya guys! I'm back again, and I have something different for you this time. I've literally never written angst before, and it turns out that once I start, it's pretty easy to get into it. Who knew, right?
> 
> This fic is based on the song _Only You_ by _Cheat Codes_ and _Little Mix_. This song has been an off and on favourite of mine for years, and yet it was just a few weeks ago when I thought of this premise for the lyrics, and I just couldn't get it out of my head. Everything about this song screamed WolfStar when I thought about it, and I just had to do it. This is a four-parter romance, and it is _long_ , because I absolutely cannot control myself, not even for a song-fic.
> 
> As far as angst goes, this is pretty, pretty angsty. I had no idea I was capable of writing this. Oops? *shrugs* It isn't all angst though! There's plenty of romance and fluff too, since I couldn't help myself. It'll be a wild ride, but I can guarantee a happy ending, because I do have limits, and this is one of them.  
> 
> 
> I should really thank Shay [(challaudaku)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/challaudaku/pseuds/challaudaku) at this point, because she has been absolutely amazing to me with this fic. I was insanely nervous about this piece, but she was the best cheerleader I could ever ask for, and if I’m posting this, it’s all due to her. She read this too many times to count, and each time she had something new and special to comment on. Thanks a million, babe!
> 
> I’d also love to thank Ana [(emryses)](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/5406340/emryses). She was late to the party, but man, her enthusiasm and encouragement is inspiration in itself. She too, has read this top to bottom, and I utterly adore her for the wonder she’s been. Thank you so very much, both of you. You guys are complete gems, and I’m so grateful for your attention and friendship.  
> 
> 
> Disclaimer: J.K Rowling is _not_ a goddess, but her writing is magical, and I can never compare. So, she keeps the characters, the places and her own created world, while I borrow them all every now and then like the pathetic human I am. The plot is all mine though!
> 
> Warnings will be mentioned at the start of each chapter, if applicable.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: none

* * *

**_Part 1 - Falling Apart_ **

* * *

_Dancing with your silhouette in the places that we met_

_Ooh, tryna find you in the moon_

* * *

**1.1 - In Love**

He's reclining lazily on the grassy floor, gazing serenely at the stars. He’s carefree, happy, one knee casually bent, the other long leg stretched out in careless elegance. He’s leaning back on his elbows, the extended column of his pale neck left exposed. 

He turns with his usual self-assured smirk, but his lips are soft with adoration. 

“You’ve forgiven me, Remus, haven’t you?”

His hair swishes with the movement, left long and loose, and a single thick lock falls across the curl of his white neck, blacker than the velvet night. His grey eyes are liquid and bright, and they’re shining more than the calm silver lake glistening platinum in the moonlight. 

He’s perfect, and he’s _his_ , and Remus has never felt more in love.

“Don’t I always forgive you, Siri? It’s never a question with you.”

His smirk widens. “That’s true. Lucky me.”

Remus glares back, but it’s half-hearted and requisite, and they both know it.

_“It’s our last week here, Sirius. Did you have to end it on such a terrible note?”_ _  
_

_“Terrible? Remus, darling, you’re mistaken. It was_ glorious _. The Marauders have left their final legacy upon this fine institution!”_

 _“Sirius,_ no _, you were getting good at leaving the Slytherins alone. Why did you break your record? Why did you have to hurt them again?”_

_“Eh, they deserved it.”_

_“Sirius!”_

_“Rem, wha-aa-t? You know they had it coming! Besides, this is our last week at Hogwarts! We needed to do something big, something grand, and most essentially, something in line with what we’ve been doing for the past seven years. We were honour-bound, Remmy. Honour-bound.”_

_“To what, target Severus and his friends? Sirius, while we are enjoying our final feasts in the Great Hall, they’ll be spending their nights in the Hospital Wing, recuperating from what_ you _have done to them!”_

_“Oh please, slimy old Snivellous doesn't have friends, just those who pity him. Besides, did you not hear what Snivellous and company said to you? They’re lucky they just lost some more of their non-existent pride instead of their limbs.”_

Sirius was in the wrong, always has been. He knows that, but he’s never been able to sway him to the good side. Lily has had better luck teaching James the joys of ethics than he’s had with this rebellious, callous man before him. 

He doesn’t mind these shortcomings. He’s always known that Sirius is a bit of a monster. He _understands_.

“Our last night,” he hears beside him. Black hair shifts again with a sigh, the lithe body he’s been so intimately acquainted with, moving sinuously to change its position. An arm goes around his waist, pulling him down towards a firm, familiar side, and in the next second, he’s enveloped in citrus. The consuming scent of cologne lulls his senses, and he melts into his arms. 

Everything about this is so familiar, and he loves it—loves that this is how they’re choosing to spend their last night at the place that’s been a home to them for the past seven years. James and Lily are shagging in the dorms, like any other couple making their final memories together before leaving Hogwarts for good. Peter is down in the kitchens with all the elves, saying goodbye and sneaking his last cakes.

He and Sirius are out by the Black Lake, lying on the grass and looking at the stars. It’s comfortable, they’ve done this a thousand times. James calls it their ‘thing’. 

He likes it. He’d rather _this_ be their thing, rather than kissing or shagging like any other run-of-the-mill teenaged couple out there. They’ve never been conventional, and he revels in the knowledge. It’s so _them_ , and he thinks it's gorgeous.

“Hey, Rem?”

“Yeah, Siri?”

“Look how close I am to the moon. Closest all year, I think.”

“What?”

A low chuckle whispers over the air, and he feels its vibrations echo through him, chest to chest. It’s familiar, so familiar, and his heart aches for how different things will be come tomorrow, once they’re both left to the harsh world without the safety of this castle’s sanctuary. 

It’s far too soon, and he’s not ready to let go. He isn’t optimistic about the outcome.

“Sirius the star,” he both hears and feels, rumbling through a solid chest. It brings him back to the present, and he’s grateful, because he doesn’t want to devolve into dire thoughts on their last night of this reassuring familiarity.

“What star?” he asks in confusion, because he’s been so lost in his train of thought, he’s forgotten all about their conversation.  
  
Another chuckle. He shivers. 

“Where’s your head been at, Rem? Am I not engaging enough company for you?”

It’s said in jest, but he still stiffens slightly, because he never wants him to think that, ever. Sirius has been the best thing to happen to him, and he wants it to be understood. He cannot afford to lose this man.

He looks up, back into those compelling silver eyes. “Sorry, Siri,” he says with apologetic sheepishness. “Just overthinking, like always.”

The almond shaped eyes soften into crinkles, silver irises shining with emotion. He doesn’t struggle to put a name to the emotion, because without it being said, he knows what it is. 

“I hate it when you do that, Rem,” is what he receives, but the reprimand is delivered with a fond smile. 

He finds it funny, how the tables turn sometimes. Reproval is his contribution in their relationship, one he wears well—borne through years of experience, none of which he actually regrets. But in rare times like these, he’s the one on the receiving end, and the unfamiliarity only makes him smile.

His smile turns into a grin, and he nudges his lover’s side gently. “What were you talking about, Si? I promise to listen this time.”

He’s rewarded with a warm grin, and it sends him into butterflies, just like always.

“Fine, I’ll indulge you.” His protests at the arrogance is completely ignored, as a smooth, velvety, teasing voice speaks over his own. “Promises, promises. How do I know you won’t space out on me again, Rem?” 

The arm around him squeezes tighter, reassuring, and he instinctively gets the underlying comfort layered within the silence.

"Don't you trust me?" he asks, just as teasingly. His lover smiles, and that's answer enough. 

"Look up," is what he gets, and he does. The sky is an unending stretch of stark black, not a cloud to be seen. Stars dot the expanse in pinpricks of white—tiny, yet hard to ignore. 

It is a half moon tonight, which is the only reason they're out on the grass—he shudders at the very thought of a waxed moon. He has suffered at the hands of the moon in full far too much to appreciate its beauty.

A pale hand moves within his line of sight, long fingers pointing up at the moon. “Look,” says the low voice in his ear, “There’s the moon,” the finger moves left in the slightest, “and there’s me. We’re the closest we’ve ever been for years, huh, Moony?”

He chuckles. It isn’t true, because Sirius the star always comes within the moon’s orbit every month, but it’s the closest they’ve noticed it together in years. 

The last time his lover had pointed it out, he had been recovering from his first full moon out with the rest of the Marauders. He had been significantly less roughed up compared to the moons before, feeling shell-shocked and grateful, and wondering if it was all just a fruitless dream. 

He still remembers the arms holding him so tightly, the words being whispered in his hair.

_“Look up, Rem, and see how close we are. The star and the moon. You’ll always have us, Moony, you’ll always have me. When have I not been here? Just look up, and you’ll always find me there.”_

“Closest in years,” he agrees quietly. He looks up into his lover’s handsome face, serene as could be. It isn’t common to see him so peaceful, and he takes the time to stare, to soak it all in. Will he ever get to see this again? What will become of them once they’re both out there, thrust into war? Will they be alright?

“I know what you’re thinking,” he hears, and his face tightens. Silver eyes bore into his own amber ones, sharp gaze trying so hard to tell him something he doesn’t understand.

“You’ve always been the analytical one of us, Remus. Always so doubtful, forever thinking too much.” A soft smile softens the blow, but he doesn’t need the reassurance. He _is_ doubtful, he _is_ pessimistic. He accepts that part of himself, but it doesn’t do much to curb the worry.

“Look up.” The words bring him a sense of déjà vu, and he knows what’s coming. 

“Look at us. We’re up there, Rem, the closest we’ve ever been in years, right as we’re about to leave Hogwarts. I think it’s a sign. Do you think it’s a sign? I do.” 

He grins, because as ridiculous as it sounds to his logical mind, he cannot help but think it true when it’s put that way by _him_.

“I think, that even as we leave here tomorrow, and even as we spend our first night in our _very own flat,”_ he squeezes the hand in his, and gets one in return, “those two up there will be just as close as they are tonight, and they’ll always be a reminder of who we are. We revolve around each other, Rem. Even if, by chance, I move away, I’ll always find my way back to you. Always.”

He smiles, blinking away his tears. Even if he loses faith in everything this world has to offer, he would never doubt the words of this man beside him. He knows better than to question this vow when it’s been delivered with such conviction. As much as Sirius can be wrong, when it comes to his promises, he is always proven right. 

So he accepts his lover’s words with a quiet smile, and he lets the silence linger, because he doesn’t know what to say. He turns in his lover’s arms and kisses those soft lips, because it’s all he knows to convey his gratitude. They kiss and kiss, because it’s their last night here at Hogwarts, and they’re finally going to celebrate their future into the unknown.

They were the kings of this old castle, and they are going to conquer the world. Together. 

He knows what it’s like to be in love, and it’s beautiful.

“Together forever, remember?” he hears whispered into his ear later that night. It's one he hears every night, and every night it feels like a fresh promise.

“Together forever.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff! Something to sweeten the deal for you guys, and I hope you stick around. Hit me up in the comments below! I'd love to hear from you :)


	2. 1.2 - In Separation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the angst begins. Second chapter, y'all! Enjoy!
> 
> Warnings: none

* * *

_Paris never feels the same, when the streets all call your name_

* * *

**1.2 - In Separation**

He walks down the quiet little lane, feeling oddly melancholic. He’s on yet another mission for Headmaster Dumbledore. Dumbledore’s assignments have steadily been getting lengthier and lengthier, and he hates being away from his friends so often. 

It weighs on him, that he hasn’t been around to share in his friends’ lives lately. He hadn’t been present when James came home with news of his promotion, he hadn’t been there for Peter’s birthday, and he had quite nearly missed Harry’s birth entirely, arriving at St. Mungo’s a mere half-hour before his little cub was born. 

It’s been a rough few months—James and Lily have had to go into hiding lately, and Peter rarely comes by anymore, preferring to stay at home, looking after his mother. He needs to be around in case of emergencies, Peter says, and his mum isn’t young enough to protect herself if there’s a raid in the neighbourhood.

It saddens him, that this is what they have come to. They aren’t as close as they used to be. Sirius, James, Lily, Peter, and Harry, they’re his family. It kills him to see his family drift away from him, and he cannot bear to watch them slip through the cracks.

The impending war has torn apart so many families, but it hasn’t forced them into ruin yet. They are broken, distant, but still hanging on to each other, and it gives him comfort.

He reaches the end of the little lane, and it widens out into an open road. There are more people here, out on the streets, and most of them seem to be tourists. Sounds and scents assault his senses as he walks on, and he longs for the quiet of another empty tree-lined street.

The quiet darkness of the alleys had given the walk a pleasant air, and it almost made him forget that he isn’t in Britain. But now, looking around, everyone and everything is but a reminder of where he is, and who isn’t with him.

There seems to be some kind of fair or other night event in the near distance, or maybe these crowds are standard fare in this city. He doesn’t know, he’s never been here before. He hadn’t planned on being here without _him_ , but here he is. 

Groups of tourists are flocking towards a determinable direction, and because this is his luck, they’re all travelling the same route as him. 

He sighs. It is so typical that he never gets peace when he wants some. There are always distractions—just the Marauders at first, but then there was the addition of Prefect duties, then Lily, then the Order members, one by one, and now even the general public seem to annoy him. All he wants is some tranquility. Why is that so much to ask?

He looks up for what feels like the hundredth time, and yes, Sirius the star is still right where he’s last seen it, winking back at him from its position close to the moon, not quite full, but almost there. 

The full moon is in three days, and he plans to go back home for the ordeal—he has transformed alone exactly once, since the inclusion of his Animagi family on his night excursions, and the experience was horrendous enough that he has long since promised himself that he is _never_ doing it again, no matter how dire or delicate the Order assignments he undertakes.

He lets the crowds carry him in its surge as he stares up at the night. The sky is cloudy tonight, obscuring most of the stars into dim greys with its near opaqueness. The stars can barely be seen, but Sirius shines bright, as close to the moon as it has ever been. 

He hates that he isn’t back home with Sirius right now, with his Sirius. This is yet another thing that he’s missing out on—his lover isn’t here to share this with him like he always has. Sirius isn’t here to whisper words of promise in his ear, Sirius isn’t here to hold him tight and say that he’ll always be there, and it _aches_.

He makes do with the memories, but it’s not enough. He stares up at the sky, hoping that blocking out the sights around will suffice to ease the pangs of _I-shouldn’t-be-here-without-him_ , but it isn’t enough. He plays back the memories of their last night at the castle, when he felt fulfilled and invincible, but it isn’t enough. He wants more. 

He wants _Sirius_.

_“We revolve around each other, Rem. Even if, by chance, I move away, I’ll always find my way back to you. Always.”_

He wants Sirius.

He sighs again, frustrated. This isn’t working, and looking up at the shining star above just makes him long for its namesake. 

As he turns his eyes away to look back at the busy street, his gaze accidentally catches the very sight he’s trying to avoid. A brightly lit tower, unique and unmistakable in its lattice design. He looks down quickly. He didn’t get that good a look, so it can be considered that he hasn’t yet _seen_ the Eiffel tower, right? Right.

He knows how silly it is to overthink to this extent. It’s foolish and inane, and it makes him seem like a child, or worse yet, a lovesick little girl with delusionary fantasies. But Sirius has made him a promise, and impossible as it is, he still wants to hold on to it. Being here without him is making him guilty, as it is, and he doesn’t want to lose the magic of seeing Paris for the first time with Sirius by his side.

 _Paris_.

He never thought he’d be here, not like this. His mother told him stories of all kinds about her childhood summers spent here in Paris. He has always had this idealised dream of what the experience would be like. He’s imagined coming here with Sirius countless times, and each dream has been magical.

He never thought he’d be roaming the streets of Paris to meet with and gain the support of four runaway, now homeless werewolves in a back alley at eleven in the night. 

Surreal isn’t the word for this.

He’s muttering to himself as he crosses the main road and turns right. He’s leaving the throng behind on the main street, only to join another crowd here—although thankfully, the swarm in this side-street is much less than the mob on the main.

This seems to be an artist’s lane, and as he looks around for a street sign to confirm that he is on the right path, he cannot ignore the little clusters of people everywhere, as they stand for their portraits. Everywhere he turns his head, there’s an artist with their easel, with their subjects modelling for them—smiling couples holding hands, family portraits, and one amusing case of a mother holding down her wiggling three year old on the stool, while the artist in the flashy scarf waves his arms about wildly, dripping little blue paint drops on the pavement.

Someone is playing some light background music with a portable radio, and he can hear the strains of smooth French where he stands. Quaint looking cafés dot the street, enticing aromas of coffee and dark chocolate filling the air. He’s surprised that the shops are still open, but well, this _is_ Paris.

The whole road is brightly lit, enabling the artists to work well, but the quaint charm of this bustling street is far from lost. The pavement stones are somewhat old-fashioned, but they only add to the beauty of the whole scene. 

Sirius would have loved seeing this.

He can picture Sirius at the heart of this street. Sirius buying a scarf from the cart to the left there, Sirius making them stand for their very own portrait, making silly faces next to him, getting him to smile. Sirius hunting down the source of the music and requesting a David Bowie song to be played next, just for the heck of it. Sirius speaking in his fluent French, making loud and cliché declarations of love in front of everyone just to get him embarrassed. Sirius pulling him to the nearest café, saying, “For the love of Merlin, Moony, we’re in _France_. Can you, for once, order something that isn’t tea?”

Everything about this street screams Sirius, and he can’t stay here any longer without breaking down. He just stands there, unmoving, the memory of that innocent fifteen-year-old promise playing on repeat in his mind’s eye—the first of many.

_“Where d’you wanna go when you grow up, Remmy?”_

_“What do you mean, Siri?”_

_“You know, when you’re a big adult and can go anywhere you’d like… where d’ya wanna go?”_

_“Oh.”_

_“Yeesss?”_

_“What?”_

_“Argh! Rem, just bloody answer the question!”_

_“Okay, okay, fine! I—can’t.”_

_“Can’t what?”_

_“Go anywhere. I’m a werewolf, Siri. Where do you think I can go? I doubt I’d barely be able to take care of myself. I can’t let myself think about luxuries when there’s a high chance that I won’t even be able to afford necessities.”_

_“Oh. Right. Uh, I didn’t think of that.”_

_“Well, now you know.”_

_“Don’t look so down, Remmy! I’ll figure something for you, I promise. I always come through, don’t I?”_

_“Yeah, for_ pranks _.”_

 _“Hmmpfh. Well, you’ll see, I’ll come up with something fabulous. And then you’ll have to admit that I always come through for you. I know what I’ll do! I’ll find a way to solve your furry little problem._ And _I’ll get you to Paris too.”_

_“Oh please, Sirius, you can’t find a way to get rid of the wolf—what? How’d you know I want to see Paris? I’ve never told you that!”_

_“Well, I’m just very, very observant you see. I can tell everything about you… that, and you always talk about those tales of your mum’s summers there, and you cart around Les Misérables and that Two Cities book absolutely everywhere, so it wasn’t tough to figure out.”_

_“… oh. Oh, um, thanks, Sirius. I didn’t know you could tell all that. It’s… nice.”_

_“Tell you what. When this whole You-Know-Who business is over with, we’ll go to Paris together. Just the two of us. We’ll see the sights, take pictures to make James jealous, and I’ll take you to every single museum there is. We’ll have a blast. I promise you, Rem, I’ll get you to Paris. You’ll have me with you the whole time, and I’ll get to see each and every one of your reactions.”_

_“My… reactions?”_

_“Of course, that’s the best part!”_

He feels a touch on his arm, and it jolts him back to the present. It’s only the self-control he has honed from years of experience which keeps him from whipping out his wand and shoving it in the agitator’s face.

The threat turns out to be a little moustached man, with a pin-striped vest and a bright red scarf knotted loosely around his neck.

 _“Monsieur, voulez-vous acheter quelque chose?”_ the man asks hesitantly, and he realises that he has been standing in the same spot near the man’s stall for the past five minutes. He flinches. 

“Sorry, I’ll leave,” he says hastily, and hurries out the street. He doesn’t look around anymore, just following the directions of the map he’s had memorised and praying that he’s on the right track. He cannot afford another lapse, not if he wants to reach home soon. 

_“When the war’s over, Moony, we’ll go anywhere you want. We’ll travel the world for as long as we’d like, see every country in every continent.”_

He turns left, then right, then right again. He’s speed-walking through the crowded streets, not daring to look up. Anything he sees will only remind him of Sirius, and this will only slow him down.

_“We’ll go to Paris, tour all over France. You’re gonna love it. The first time you see Paris, I’ll be there by your side to see it with you. I promise.”_

A final left, and then he’s leaving the crowds behind. The Eiffel tower is now behind him, and there isn’t a risk of him even glancing that way accidentally, but he isn’t taking any chances. The pavement is uninspiring, but he doesn’t dare look up, other than to observe for threats. 

He’s in another dark lane, quiet and pleasant. There are no people around, save for a young couple out under a nearby tree. He sighs in relief. He needs to get his game face on, if he is to convince the four werewolves to come back to Britain and join their side, and crowds unnerve him.

He smiles fondly at the two teens—so reminiscent of him and Sirius when they were younger. The dark haired young man reaches for the girl's hand, and they smile at each other, and he’s instantly reminded of the innocence of their youth. 

He turns his head away, intending to move on towards his destination, but before he does, a movement catches his eye and he focuses back on the couple. He sees that the boy’s other hand has moved towards the girl’s neck, and before he knows it, the two of them are passionately kissing in the dark.

The smile falls off his face.

_“I’ll kiss you everywhere, Rem—in the streets, atop the Eiffel tower, inside your favourite museums, in front of cafés and in alleys. We’ll leave our mark all over the city, and when we look back at our trip, all we’ll remember are those kisses.”_

He’s dashing the rest of the way. He doesn’t care, he doesn’t care, all he wants is to meet with these werewolves tonight and hurry back home. He doesn’t want to be here. He’ll drag the wolves by their non-existent tails back to Scotland and shove them at Dumbledore if it gets him to Sirius quicker.

He needs to see Sirius.

Right, right, left, straight. He follows the directions of his memorised map right down to the last footstep. He doesn’t want to be stuck here in Paris any longer than he has to, and he doesn’t even bother with checking the street signs. He just moves, and hopes that he’ll be taken where he needs to go.

_“We’ll stargaze from the Eiffel. I’d sneak us up at night, and you’d protest against using our magic to break rules, but you’ll come with me anyway. We’ll stay up all night, right at the top, and we’ll watch the city lights go off one by one.”_

The streets are dark here, more rundown. The moonlight guides his steps as he hurries silently across the pavement. He’s heading towards the river Seine—heading for the docks, but not quite. 

_“You’ll fall asleep on me, and I’ll let you. We'll sleep together on the ground all night, and we’ll wake up the next morning with the sun shining in our eyes and a beautiful sunrise on the horizon. It’ll be glorious.”_

_There_. A narrow, near invisible alley, right before the turn-off towards the docks. It’s dark and lonely, well-hidden—perfect for their rendezvous point. It’s the only place the werewolves could agree on for their final meeting. 

_“Together forever, remember?”_

He’ll be alright. He must have done this at least fifty times now, and he has it down to a science. He takes a deep breath, and forces his muddled mind to clear. He blocks out all thoughts of James’ latest Auror case, of Peter’s increasing distance, of Lily’s worrisome obsession with her protective magic books and potions, of Harry’s upcoming sixth month birthday.

As hard as it is, he wipes out all thoughts of Sirius.

It’s a precautionary measure—maybe unnecessary, but he can never let himself jeopardise the protection of his family. He doesn’t know these men’s skills, he doesn’t know whose side these people are on yet. For all he knows, this can be a trap, and if someone chances a read at his mind, he cannot let them glean any information from him.

The four men he’s been meeting with for the past two weeks are all friends, good friends. They’ve escaped from Britain, hoping to find a place here with one of the men’s mother’s side of the family. He finds them to be good people, and they remind him of himself, of the Marauders. He wants to help them, but he doesn’t know what he can do, and the war comes first. 

Another deep breath. He lets out a single weary sigh, then straightens himself, gearing up to enter the alley. He has a mission to accomplish.

He goes in.


	3. 1.3 - In Horror

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things get serious. Don't hate me, this had to be done. *grimaces* I nearly cried while writing it, so yeah, I did my time for the crime.
> 
> Warnings: mentions of suicide? It isn’t prominent, and trust me, no one is dying here. I’m only stating this as a possible trigger.

* * *

_And I'll follow right down the river where the ocean meets the sky_

_To you, to you_

* * *

**1.3 - In Horror**

He Apparates in with a pop that rings in his ears. Echoing, over and over. It is a soft sound—hardly noticeable amidst the deafening crashing of angry waves—but in his state of mind, every sound, every sense sends another hard stab of pain through his veins.

_Why is he here?_

Wet sand squelches under his worn shoes. He takes another step towards the water. 

The waves crash but a foot away from him. He shouldn’t have Apparated so close to the edge. It was far from safe, and he could have so easily been pulled into the tide. But he hadn’t been thinking, he doesn’t want to think. If he lets himself drown into desolation, there’s no one to pull him out. He has _no one_.

He cannot bring himself to think. The raging tide is right there in front of him, mocking him. _Enticing him._

Five more steps, and instead of being swept up by the pain, he’ll be swept into the current. Never to live more of this torment. Gone forever, but still close enough to be with _him_. He’ll be one with the ocean, and they’ll revolve around each other forever, just as he’d promised.

He cannot bring himself to think, because if he does, he knows he will accept the invitation. Five steps, and it will be over. 

He doesn’t want to take those five steps.

_What is he doing here?_

Five steps, and he can see James again. Lily. Peter.

He looks out into the murky black. Everything is black. The night sky, the churning water, his blurring vision. He wants to breathe, he wants to look up, but the stars are just another reminder of _him_. Every _breath_ he takes is a reminder of him.

The North Sea stretches out before him, breathtaking in its dark fury. He is constantly sprayed with its stray drops as the waves lash to the sand, mere inches before his tired feet. It gets into his eyes, but he blinks them away. His gaze is blurry, but he continues his attempts to locate the tower masked behind the mist.

 _There_. The tall structure is barely discernible against the nebulous gloom, but he is persistent. He strengthens his focus, and as he does, the tower reveals itself to him. 

The tall tower is imposing, even through the haze. It’s black, blacker than the night, and the sharp triangular corners of its edges convey as much doom and terror as the tower itself. He gasps. 

He has been anticipating a nervous reaction to the sight of that condemned structure, but reflexive terror still hits him like a punch to the gut. 

He stares, transfixed, as the rolling mist hovers over the black, black tower in eerie sluggishness. As he watches, a scream slices through the dark night, harsh and unending. The sound is distorted by the roiling waves—cut off in some places, a mere groaning in others, but it is unmistakably, a man’s scream of utmost terror.

 _Azkaban_.

Another scream, higher this time. Not as hoarse as the first, not as immersed in its terror. The scream echoes everywhere, surrounding him, drowning him. It goes on and on, and he shudders at the sheer horror it evokes. The voice beckons to him, pleading, like a nightmare that just won’t stop.

 _Sirius_.

Is that his voice? Is it him? Or is it a figment of his imagination?

_“Is it true? I came as fast as I could. Where are they? Albus, where are they?”_

_“Remus, my boy…”_

_“Albus, stop. Is it true?”_

_“Remus, sit down. You’ve come a long way, and your last mission has weakened you, my boy.”_

_“WHERE—” Deep breath. “Albus. Albus, where is Sirius? Where is James, Lily, Harry? Peter, where is he?”_

_“They’re… gone.”_

_“Wha—How? What happened?”_

_“It was Voldemort. He broke the Fidelius last night, and—”_

_“NO! It can’t be!”_

_“—they’re dead, Remus. All dead.”_

_“No. No, no, no, Albus they can’t be gone, it can’t be true, it can't...”_

The events of the past days—maybe minutes, maybe days, maybe months in the making—catch up to him. They catch up to him, and all at once, the numbness surrounding his heart freezes. He can feel his chest squeezing, his breaths halting, his mind shutting down and giving in. He feels like a dead man walking, and everything _hurts_. 

How could _he_ do this? What brought him to this? Why didn’t he see this coming?

Why is it so easy to lose faith in the man he claims to love?

_“It was Sirius, my boy. He—he was the spy. The one we have been searching for. He gave Voldemort the coordinates, he betrayed the Order.”_

_“NO! No, it couldn’t be—not Sirius, not—Albus, don’t lie to me. It—it’s_ Sirius _, he wouldn’t—”_

_“I’m sorry, Remus, but it’s been confirmed. Sirius Black is a Death Eater. He’s already been shipped to Azkaban.”_

_“NO! DO NOT LIE, ALBUS! He loves—he loved—he—”_

He takes another step towards the water, and another and another. He will not let himself be enticed by the call of the sea, he won’t. He will not succumb to this madness. 

But there’s an entire sea separating him from the man he loves, the man he has always thought he knows. The man he had once known, the one who’s now a stranger to him. He doesn’t know what to think, but he still wants to be as close to him as he can get. 

A final step, and his feet now touch the very lip of the water’s edge. One more, and he will lose himself to the sea. A single step more, and the pull of the sea will be too tough to resist. He’s come as close as he can get.

He wants to run straight into _his_ arms, hold on and never let go. He wants to be comforted, he wants to feel his warmth again, even through this torment that seems like it will never let him escape its cold grasp. He wants to commit terrible crimes to find release from this agony, he wants to turn himself in and be incarcerated; they could both be together forever, just like he had always been promised.

He wants to run away from this, run away from _him_ , run and run and never look back. He wants to forget. He wants to have never known love, because it was love that brought him this. 

They are both monsters. He is a monster by circumstance, and _he_ is one by choice. It used to make their relationship feel validated, because how could a monster like him be loved by another, unless they were a monster too? 

It had been a point of consolation before, but it doesn’t work any longer—not since _he_ made a choice that took him too far. He cannot overlook this mistake. He has forgiven all this man’s past sins, but he cannot forgive him this.

_“Remus, my boy, there’s nothing we can do. Thirteen victims, fifteen witnesses. How much more confirmation do you need?”_

_“He wouldn’t do that—”_

_“Sirius Black is the very mole we feared was present in the Order. We just have to accept it for what it is. All in time, Remus. Time will heal.”_

Did he even _think_ it a mistake? Was this always meant to be how it would end?

He wants to cut off his strings, sink to the sand and grieve and weep for what could have been. He wants his tears to become one with the sea, to mix and flow away into the ocean until they are unrecognisable beyond means.

Another unearthly shriek cuts through the air, carrying crystal clear even though the distortion of the breaking black waves. 

He cannot decide what he wants. He wants so much, he wants too much, and above all else, he wants to scream.

_“I’m sorry, my boy.”_

He screams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gimme all the feedback! Love, tears, curses, I can take it all. I do promise though, that this will have a happy ending. See you for the next chapter!


	4. 1.4 - In Yearning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slower chapter here, but still pretty essential plot-wise. Honestly, _every_ chapter here will be essential plot-wise, so...
> 
> Chapter warnings: none.

* * *

_Once upon a time we had it all_

_Somewhere down the line we went and lost it_

* * *

**1.4 - In Yearning**

He’s made his way here hours beforehand, bagging a seat in the very last compartment to set down his suitcase and try for a little nap. He has been waiting for this day for years, and now that it is finally here, he has no idea what to do.

Twelve years. It’s been twelve whole years since the day everything fell apart, and he doesn’t remember a single day of it. All he recalls is ticking the day of their deaths, the day of his imprisonment, off the calendar every year. He’s done it eleven times already, and the eleventh time hasn't been any easier than the first.

He finally gets to see his cub again. He’s been trying for years and years, pleading with Dumbledore for _just a single visit, just to make sure he’s alright._ He’s been staunchly refused, every time, and it’s been driving him insane.

He’s checked with every single Order member, asking around to find out if James’ son has been placed with them. He’s spoken to Sturgis Podmore and Emmeline Vance, braved a talk with Augusta Longbottom and her horrendous brother, cornered Arthur Weasley outside the Ministry. 

He’s talked to Elphias Doge, a doddering old man almost the same age as Dumbledore; he’s even traded the old watch his father had given him on his seventeenth birthday to Mundungus Fletcher, for no worthwhile information whatsoever. Dedalus Diggle said that he’s once seen Harry, but he doesn’t remember where they’d met, what he wore, how he looked, whether he was smiling—just that stupid lightening scar. 

He doesn’t care about an inconsequential scar on a forehead. He cares about the boy wearing it. He cares about James and Lily’s son.

He doesn’t know what Dumbledore is up to, why he has taken so many pains to hide the boy, and he’s running out of excuses to make for the man’s inexplicable behaviour.

But he’s here now. He’s here on the Hogwarts Express for his debut as a professor—the Defense Against The Dark Arts teacher, specifically—and he’ll get to see his cub again. Dumbledore has been suspiciously unresponsive for the past twelve years, but he’s coming through now. Right when he needs the job most.

He knows why he’s been called in for the post—he’s not naive enough to think that he’s gotten in on merits alone, or even pity, no, but because he’s the most knowledgeable informant Dumbledore has on Sirius Black. If he’s been hired as a Hogwarts professor, it’s because of Sirius, in every sense.

But semantics don’t bother him, not for this. He gets to see his cub again, and that’s all that matters. 

Searching for his cub is all he remembers of the past twelve years, the only other memories standing out in stark contrast being his efforts to search for the mystery behind Sirius’ imprisonment. The longer he thinks about the case made against his lover, the less he finds it believable. 

There are still times, many times, when he cannot help but find him guilty, because try as he might, he cannot find another answer to this mystery. He’s exhausted his resources, exhausted his efforts, but at the end of it all, he is still a werewolf, and his efforts have never been enough once burdened by the stigma of what he is.

But he knows, in his heart, that Sirius would never have committed a crime so macabre against the people he’s loved so fiercely. It doesn’t make sense, and he doesn’t believe it. Sirius would have never let them get hurt, not on his life.

He is coping with his losses—not very well, but he is coping. He’s been able to call his lover by name again, to think of his voice and smile without having a full-on panic attack. Thoughts of Sirius still come off stilted, unsure, but he’s learning. And now that he’s managed to relatively regain his confidence regarding his lover’s innocence, now that he’s been able to speak and think his name again, memories of Sirius are all he can think about.

He can finally look up at the stars without flinching, he can finally walk around London without imagining Sirius everywhere, standing there beside him. He misses James too, and Peter and Lily, but the loss of Sirius has hit him the hardest—he’s so close, yet so unreachable. 

It’s maddening, frustrating, and at times, when the pain of the loss reaches its peak, he loses his mind with it so completely that he’s a stranger to himself. His self-control is completely shot, and the memories do nothing but unravel him.

It’s been getting worse, over the past month. The memories, the flashbacks, the pain they bring. He had just been getting better, he’d just started to finally put the events of twelve years’ past behind him. 

Then one morning, Sirius Black’s face showed up in his copy of the Daily Prophet.

That single black and white picture has haunted him for weeks. Every waking minute, every second he’s asleep, every time he closes his eyes, he sees that unfamiliar face— _screaming_. He doesn’t recognise this man, he has never seen such madness in his life. There’s madness in his eyes, on his face, in his scream. Everything about the photograph screams _insanity_ , and what terrifies him is that this photo had been taken _before_ Sirius had been imprisoned.

He shudders to think about how Sirius has turned out after his years spent with the Dementors. If this was what the man had been hiding while they were still together, all this madness right underneath the surface, what will become of the man now? 

Everything about Sirius Black is unfamiliar, uncharted, and it’s a blow to his heart, because this had been the one thing he’d thought he’d known like the back of his hand.

Sirius Black has mended him up and broken him apart, over and over again.

They say that Sirius has escaped. It’s plastered all over the news, all over the city—both Muggle areas and Magical. It’s surreal, and he still doesn’t believe it. How did Sirius escape? Why now, why after twelve whole years? Where is he now?

Why didn’t Sirius come to _him?_

Isn’t he trusted anymore?

The Ministry has muddled every bit of information about Sirius’ break-out, and the public doesn’t even know which bits are right and which aren’t. His date of escape isn’t very clear, but word on the streets has been that it was pulled off on the 31st of July. His godson’s birthday.

He doesn’t know what to think about this. Is it a coincidence? The characters at Knockturn certainly don’t think so. A theory being whispered around is that Sirius plans to go after his godson, finish what he started with the Potters. He doesn’t buy it, of course—even if he did believe Sirius a killer, he knew that the man would never, ever harm the little boy whom he once carried everywhere on his shoulders. Sirius adored him, both as himself and as Padfoot.

He knows that their whispers are untrue, but what of the others? They don’t know any better, and soon enough, these lies will be taken as the truth. If that Skeeter woman gets hold of these rumours, there will be no stopping this madness. What then? What would happen to Sirius? What if James’ son gets wind of this so-called threat? Would he be fearful? Vengeful? Would there be measures taken to protect him?

He changes his position in his seat once his legs go numb. He can’t seem to get any sleep, despite lying awake all night, every night for the past week. He’s always been a night person, but this is ridiculous, even for him.

He stretches his legs, wiggles his fingers, and his hand brushes against his suitcase as he does. He’s kept it pressed against him, unwilling to let go of his leather case—it’s far too precious for him to dump in the luggage loft above his head, and he can’t bear to keep it by his feet. It’s too precious.

He’s wearing his best brown suit for his first day at Hogwarts, and his least worn-through pair of shoes. He’s found Sirius’ old cream tie to match, and Sirius’ old silver watch adorns his wrist. He has no watch of his own anymore, and this is just another piece of Sirius to carry with him. He’s brushed himself up, dressed in his best, but the handsome, crisp tan leather case outshines him in every way.

It has his initials in shining gold, _R. J. Lupin,_ and attached to the base of it’s handle is a small gold plate with the tiniest lettering— _Professor Moony._ The leather is thick, rich, and placed against the shabby state of his clothes, no one in their right mind would ever think it anything but a gift. 

_“Sirius, what is this?”_

_“It’s… a suitcase? Isn’t it obvious?”_

_“Y—yes, I_ know _it’s a suitcase, Siri, but_ why _? What’s it for?”_

_“Why, for when you become a professor, of course! See, it’s written right there—Professor Moony, see? It’s tiny, you’ll have to squint a bit—”_

_“Sirius!”_

_“What?”_

_“What are you up to? When have I ever said that I want to become a professor?”_

_“Never. Because you are chronically incapable of telling anyone what you want, and I always have to either worm it out of you, or deduce it myself.”_

_“I—”_

_“No. You’re going to tell me that you can’t do it, you’re gonna sprout some bullshit about being a werewolf and leave it at that. Well, I’m here to tell you that you will. I’ve seen how much you love to teach, Rem, and you’re a natural at it. You deserve having a job you love working at, and you deserve a career as much as the next person. One day, that suitcase will find itself put to its rightful use.”_

_“Sirius, it’s not so simple. People hate me, they hate what I am. I can barely hold down a job in a Muggle diner, how will I ever get one teaching children?”_

_“If you’re worrying about the full moons, don’t. We’ll all be there in our Animagi forms, you know that. Yes, that’s what we’ll do—Jamie, Pete and I will be there for you every month, and we’ll watch over you like we always do. Easy as that.”_

_“No! Not as easy as that, Sirius. It’s the farthest thing from easy. For as long as I’m a werewolf, I’m a danger to people everywhere. Don’t you get it? I’m not one of you! I’m not—I’m not human. I don’t even have any rights.”_

_“What do you think I’m fighting for, Rem? Why do you think I’m fighting this war? Yes, to protect my friends, but I’m also fighting for_ you _. You think I care for the rest of the world? They mean nothing to me. I’m fighting so that Peter remains safe, that James and Lily can come out of hiding, that my godson grows up in a better world. I’m fighting for your rights, for your dignity. I don’t care about the rest of them. I care about_ you _.”_

_“Sirius—”_

_“No, Rem. I want you to listen to me. One day, you will be able to walk on the streets with your head held high. One day, people will treat you like a hero, not a monster. One day, you’re gonna walk through doors with that very same suitcase in your hand, and the kids will be calling you Professor Lupin. You've always been one of us, Rem. You’re better than most of us—you’re_ good _, genuinely good, and that can’t be said for half of the rest of us. They’ll see who you are soon, I promise you this. I will make sure of it. I will fight for you to my last breath.”_

_"Thank you, Siri. I—you have too much faith in me. But I can’t let you die on me, Si, so I guess I’ll have to fight right there with you.”_

The case is far too ostentatious for him—the whole thing is entirely made of _leather_ —and he knows that Sirius too, was aware of it, even as he bought it. Knowing him, he probably bought it for that very reason. The plain brown design looks simple enough though, at first glance, and he knows that for Sirius, it’s a major concession on his part. 

It’s also far too big—he doesn’t know what had gone on in this extravagant idiot’s mind, because when has he ever had the need or belongings for so much space? But this too has a reason, he knows, because Sirius does everything with a reason. He could have easily gone for a magical space saving luggage case, but no, he’d brought this big, fancy one instead.

“ _You've always been one of us, Rem. You’re better than most of us—you’re_ good _, genuinely good, and that can’t be said for half of the rest of us.”_

He knows what Sirius was trying to tell him. He still doesn’t understand the sentiment—he never had—but this leather case will always be a reminder of Sirius’ baffling declaration.

_“You deserve more than you think, darling. You deserve the world.”_

He’s not sure he does, but when Sirius had been around, he’d done his very best to give it to him.

The train jolts. He blinks, startled, and glances down at Sirius’ silver watch. Is it eleven o’clock already?

Ten fifty-nine. His compartment is still empty, and he concludes that it’ll most likely remain unoccupied for the trip to the castle. He leaves his suitcase on the seat. It takes up far too much space, but if he is to remain unaccompanied through the ride, he sees no point in setting it down. He doesn’t want it to touch the floor.

He’s surprised at the lack of crowd on the train—even the platform hadn’t been packed when he’d first arrived. Platform 9 ¾ had always been full to bursting with jostling bodies before, back when he was a student. He supposes that the decline in students is most likely attributed to the war. All those families who could have been sending off their children to Hogwarts today—all dead.

He’d last rode the Hogwarts Express a little more than fifteen years ago, in the large compartment right behind the Prefects’ carriage. He’d had his friends around him, Sirius beside him, and all of them had unspokenly put aside all talk of war for their last ever ride on the Hogwarts Express. They had had fun, and he had been hopeful for a better future.

He scoffs at his past self. He’d been so stupid. Young, stupid, and in love. He’s still in love, unfortunately, torturously so, but it’s not the same. This time, he’s by himself, only Sirius’ watch and Sirius’ suitcase to accompany him for the ride. He’s never felt more alone, and the nostalgia of the old days just drives the loneliness deeper.

Another jolt, more pronounced this time. Eleven o’clock.

He gears himself up for a long ride. He’s brought an old paperback with him, but he’s not in the mood to read. He lays his head on the window, trying and failing to pretend that the cold hard glass is Sirius’ shoulder. He misses Sirius.

He nearly does succeed. No, that’s a lie—but he nearly does delude himself into believing that he’s succeeded.

Then Harry Potter comes in.

He—he’s been waiting to see his cub for years, but his mind can’t comprehend that this living, breathing young boy is the little one-year old he’d adored so much.

_“Moo’y! Moo’y, see, see!”_

The boy before him is startlingly like James. He’s not that tall for a thirteen year old, and his clothes are as old and ratty as the ones he himself used to wear when he was young—only much, much wider. But there’s a smile on his face, and he’s laughing at someone behind him.

He’s wearing James’ glasses. He first thinks that it’s just the style that’s similar, but no—there’s that white scratch on the rim near its joint, right where James had scratched his own, one drunken night out. How did Harry get hold of his father’s old glasses?

He nearly gives himself away, very nearly reaches out and touches Harry’s face, just to know that this is real. He catches himself in time, falling back into the pretence of closed eyes and lax body right before the boy turns his head back.

His eyes are still open and watchful, just the tiniest slit, and that’s how he notices. The _eyes_. 

He’d always loved to see little Harry’s bright green eyes when he was an infant. The emerald colour was so entrancing, and it spoke of so much innocence. He’d never thought of those eyes as Lily’s eyes before. Just Harry’s.

But now, Harry’s turned towards him, thirteen years old and not one and three months, and he’s faced with the startling realisation that he’s looking into Lily’s eyes. Those are Lily’s eyes he’s seeing. Same wide shape, same jade green, same long lashes. 

Then Harry blinks and starts talking to his friend again, and those two green orbs go back to being Harry’s.

Harry is debating with his friends on who he is. He knows that these kids aren’t used to seeing adults on the train, and definitely not one seemingly asleep like he is. 

He hadn’t planned this trip by train, but then he’d woken up today with forty seven minutes of sleep under his belt and a drunken nostalgia far more prominent than the intensity of his flashbacks over the past weeks, and he had no other choice. He doesn’t want to Splinch himself, as he knows he will if he tries to Apparate to Hogwarts while he’s this distracted.

The bushy haired girl seated opposite Harry is smart, very smart. The red haired boy he’d seen walk in was particularly loud in his question of _what is this stranger doing on the train,_ and the girl, _Hermione_ , if he’s heard right, instantly states his name as read on his suitcase.

He can’t see the red-head’s face, but he sounds flabbergasted at this Hermione’s seeming omniscience. Then she explains where he got his name from, and he can practically _see_ the boy deflate.

He almost laughs, then and there. These two kids remind him of him and Sirius, oddly enough—back when they had been nothing more than friends. 

He’s been wishing back on the old days, and he’s now forced to witness his memories played back in different colours, by different people, in a different setting, and he can do nothing but sit here and pretend to be asleep as he’s taunted by his past.

The three kids adamantly discuss the question of who he is and what subject he’d most likely be teaching, and once again, Hermione impresses him. The three talk about the subject as if it’s a great mystery to be solved, and he gets the distinct impression that this is how they always are. Every topic, to them, is just a mystery waiting for its answers to be revealed, and it takes him back to his own time with the Marauders, sneaking around the castle at night as they try to map its secrets as best as they can.

He watches Harry all through the ride. He’s laying on his side, the back of his head cradled against the glass of the window, and with his chin tucked into his chest, he has the perfect view of Harry seated beside him. Harry isn’t as comfortable as he could be, because the stupidly big suitcase is blocking most of the seat. He’s torn between pretending to wake up and shifting his case to make room for the poor boy, and staying right where he is, taking in everything he can of his young cub. He’s been aching to see Harry again, and he wants to see what this boy is like around people he’s comfortable with.

Harry is a mess of contradictions. He’s animated, yet reserved. He’s smiling, but the smile almost looks forced. He’s laughing along with his friends, he’s happily scratching the neck of Hermione’s ginger cat’s fur, but yet, he looks like he’s far, far away. He looks tired, but content.

The boy is a mystery, but at least he’s smiling. He seems happy. He looks far too thin for his age, as skinny as he himself was at that age, but his cub does look healthy, and it brings him relief, as short-lived as it is.

He feels guilty, so guilty for not seeing his cub sooner, not trying harder. Harry’s two friends seem like good kids, and he’s sure that they take good enough care of him—Hermione, especially, shows concern and empathy far more than he expects from someone at this age. He certainly wasn’t that good a person when he was thirteen. Harry’s been in good hands at Hogwarts, he can tell, but Harry looks like he could have used a friend when he was young. 

He feels guilty, but as the hours go by, as he sees his cub steadily grow more comfortable in his friends’ presence, his guilt is cloaked by the utter fascination he feels, watching Harry interact. He’s packing twelve years of wishful experiences into eight hours, and he soaks up as much as he can.

He can’t look out the window, he can’t read the book he’s brought with him, he can’t even shift in his position—he doesn’t want to even move a muscle, and he feels the consequences of his decision as the cramps creep up his legs to the tendons of his thighs. His neck muscles already feel caught up, and his back will be in utter agony once he gets off this train in a few hours, but he doesn’t care for any of it.

The trolley woman, Martha, comes and goes, and Harry’s bought a whole bucketful of assorted sweets from her. He’s amused at this boy’s apparent sweet tooth, so much like his own, yet unsure of how to feel at seeing Harry spend so much gold in a single splurge. 

But then Harry turns around to his friends and divides the candy into three equal parts, and he hears Hermione’s soft _thank you, Harry_ , and Ron’s almost unintelligible _thanks, mate,_ around a mouth full of chocolate.

It’s such a _James_ move, and then and there, he knows that this boy is the perfect legacy, of both James and Lily.

He can feel the light fading outside, and he can picture the sky fading from its light, clouded grey of the late morning to the murky grey of the drizzled oncoming twilight. He hears the students in the carriages around him grow steadily more boisterous as the hours pass, but the three in the compartment are just as soft as they were when their ride first began. He doesn’t know if they are naturally quiet, or the muted tones are a concession towards his sleeping profile, but he’s grateful for their consideration nonetheless. 

He’s slipping into dreamscape—the soft voices of Ron and Harry blend into memories of seeing Sirius and James talk, of Lily rocking little Harry to bed, of him reading Harry his bedtime stories, of Peter coming around to the Potters’ for Christmas with a heavy bag of Muggle toys for Harry—rattles and soldier figurines and plastic rocket launchers and a memorable fifty block Lego set—all of which he and Sirius had put together over the next two weeks for the little boy.

Harry’s grinning at something Ron says, and he thinks of the adorable green-eyed toddler grinning toothily up at him from his crib as he plays with tiny fingers, of the thin wisps of fine black hair, already showing signs of James’ signature rat’s nest of hair. Hermione scolds Ron for eating too many chocolate frogs, and he remembers Lily wagging her finger at them, as he feeds little Harry a bit more of his chocolate, and Sirius makes silly faces at his godson from the back.

It’s peaceful, seeing them again, young and happy and carefree, even if it’s just in his dreams. He’s spent seven silent hours in Harry’s presence, and already, that overwhelming pain of loss is muted to a bittersweet buzz, as he contemplates over scenes from the past.

He’s in a good place. He’s content with this in-between, content to stay right here in this haze between memory and reality and never move again.

And then the train jolts to a complete stop. 

The sky hasn’t darkened fully, the evening lights in the carriages have only just come on, and he knows that they haven’t reached Hogwarts yet.

The four tiny lights in their compartment flicker off, one by one. Hermione gasps, Ron sounds worried, and Harry looks a mix of anxious and resigned.

Then the Dementors break in. 

He throws himself off his seat, wobbling as the numbness in his feet sharpens into pins and needles, and pulls his wand into his palm, conjuring the quickest Patronus he can.

Then Harry falls to the floor, clutching his head as his gasps falter into unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think, guys! Do you like it? Hate it? I'll never know until you hit that comment button ;)


	5. 1.5 - In Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been told that this chapter is 'heart-wrenchingly beautiful'. I still hope I did this justice. Enjoy!
> 
> Chapter warnings: angst? Yes, angst.

* * *

_One brick at a time we watched it fall_

_I'm broken here tonight and darling, no one else can fix me_

* * *

**1.5 - In Reunion**

His eyes have been on the map for more than an hour, but he still can’t believe what he’s seeing. This is absolutely _ludicrous_. He must be imagining things.

Maybe the constant lack of sleep is causing him hallucinations.

There can be no other explanation for why he’s been seeing Peter Pettigrew’s name on the Marauder’s Map. And why, right now, Sirius Black is shown to be within three feet of this supposedly dead man, in the _Shrieking Shack,_ of all places. And why _thirteen year old_ Ron Weasley is right there with him, in the exact same position for the past _six_ minutes.

It’s inconceivable, that’s what it is. This is his mind playing tricks on him. This is him paying for all his past sins. This is him being pulled into a fantasy of what-ifs, only for it to shatter into yet another fruitless nightmare.

This is the most bizarre delusion his mind has ever come up with.

Unless—unless this is all true. The Marauder’s Map never lies, after all. He’s calibrated the spells and runes for this piece of parchment himself, and as little faith he has in himself, his knowledge and accuracy of magic is the one thing he has learned to never doubt. With his role as babysitter for James and Sirius’ wild prank experiments, precision has practically been part of his job qualifications.

 _Sirius_.

That’s Sirius, right there, a tiny footprint on a decades old map. And there’s Sirius, but a few miles away from him, alive and real and in the _flesh_. Sirius is out there, so close, within reach. And apparently, standing close enough to Peter to seemingly be choking him.

 _Peter_.

Is it true? Is his old friend really alive? Where has he been all this time? How is this possible?

Harry _had_ mentioned something about seeing a dead man walking the halls on this very map. He’d thought it to be a figment of his imagination at the time, or maybe a product of the boy’s insomnia. It’s obvious that something has been troubling Harry lately, something that isn’t letting the boy sleep well. He wants to help his cub, but he doesn’t know how. He can’t seem to cure his own sleeplessness, what will he do for Harry?

But Harry seems to be right. He’s himself seeing a dead man’s footprints on the grounds of Hogwarts, and he cannot possibly write off this ridiculous declaration as a product of a thirteen year old sugar rush, even if he was foolish enough to doubt Harry in the first place.

Peter. It’s Peter. Peter’s alive.

He sits back to think, and the pieces fall into place.

The growing distance. All the times Peter didn’t show up. The lies, the excuses. All the quiet digs at Sirius, subtle enough to almost go unnoticed. The confrontation with Sirius—the single brave thing, the _only_ brave thing Peter had done in his whole entire life. The single cut-off finger found as evidence. His Animagus form. Ron Weasley’s constant complaints of his missing rat, vocal enough to be known by everyone in the school.

“Shit.”

He snatches up the map and throws himself out his desk, grabbing his wand where it lays amongst the clutter of paper and quills. He knocks something heavy over in his haste—the simple grey chalice he hasn’t paid mind to for the past hour—but he doesn’t care. He’s out the door before the steaming cup crashes fully to the floor.

He has never run so fast in his life. He sprints towards the Whomping Willow like a madman, thankful that he doesn’t encounter any students along the way. The map is bunched in his sweaty hand, crinkling the old parchment. He has never handled this precious map so callously before, but he cannot bring himself to care.

He’s stumbling out the main gates of the castle, dashing across the grounds. The night is heavy and dark, but he doesn’t spare it a glance. His mind is churning, evaluating, coming to terms with his new revelations, but at the forefront of his thoughts, all he can comprehend is _SiriusSiriusPeterSirius_.

He reaches the Whomping Willow in record time, and dodges the drunkenly moving branches expertly, not bothering with the fiddling required to cast an _Immobulus_. He presses at the hidden knot at the base with practiced ease, and he’s pushed himself through the hidden hole before the branches fully stop moving.

Shoving the map into an inner pocket, he scrambles through the tunnel.

 _SiriusSiriusPeterSirius_.

He doesn’t know what to feel. 

Sirius’ innocence has finally, _finally_ been confirmed to him—he’s been pulled in a constant state of back and forth ever since he had first seen that haunted face in the paper, and the flood of relief he feels is overwhelming in its strength. Every time he’s felt relatively secure in his belief of Sirius’ innocence, another event would come to light, casting him into doubt yet again. He’s at the point where he just needs an answer, where he’s been rendered insane with his inability to come to a conclusion, and being hit with this revelation is _liberating_.

He’s been in love with a mass murderer for twelve years, and it’s nice to let go of guilt that comes with it.

And _Peter_. He’s thought Peter dead for twelve years, and now he’s here. It feels like a miracle, and he’s torn between rejoicing for the return of his old friend and restraining himself from wanting to ship the rat back to the land of the dead. Horror pries him open like a knife, and the betrayal burns him, right to his core. He can feel his self-control slipping, and he hasn’t even _seen_ the two-timing rat yet.

He’s had twelve years of experience battling with betrayal, and yet, this feels like his first fight.

How will he react, seeing Sirius again after all this time? What will it be that consumes him? Anger? Betrayal? Regret? Fear?

 _SiriusSiriusPeterSirius_.

He’s tired, yet so, so alive. His mind is confused, but his body is already anticipating seeing Sirius again. He’s running, racing, the fastest he ever has in his life.

_“Where’s your head at, Rem? Thinking up new genius pranks for us, I hope.”_

He wants to see Sirius.

_“Moony, darling, I adore you.”_

He _needs_ to see Sirius.

_“Hah! One day people will be calling you Professor Lupin, and when they do, I’ll be standing right there beside you going ‘I told you so’. I’ll say it as loudly as I can and rub it in your face, and for once you’ll get to see what it’s like to be on the other side of that sentence.”_

Rock, dirt, rock, dirt—he barely registers anything around him. He wants to hear Sirius say ‘I told you so’. He was a fool to ever doubt a vow made by Sirius. He’s been a fool to ever doubt Sirius. He’s running, _running_ , just to hear his voice again.

_“They’ll see who you are soon, I promise you this. I will make sure of it. I will fight for you to my last breath.”_

He feels like he’s flying. Are his feet even hitting the ground? Will he ever run out of breath? He feels invincible again—he’s riding the same high as on their last night at Hogwarts, right before they crashed and burned. 

The tunnel seems unending, but knows that he’s nearing its end. Only a few feet more, and he’ll reach the trapdoor.

_“Remus Lupin, you’re the most precious possession I own, and I’d be a fool to ever let you go. You own my heart, love—but do I own yours?”_

The trapdoor flies open with a loud creak. It isn’t as silent as he’d like—he’s a force of barely restrained energy, and he isn’t in a position to temper his strength. Sirius knows this condemned shack like the back of his hand—much better than him, since he hadn’t fancied the idea of exploring what was meant to be his cage— and he doesn’t want Sirius to startle and escape

He stills for a moment—a moment is all he can spare—but there is nothing to be heard. Either his disturbance has gone unheard, or Sirius is making his escape quietly without his knowledge. He doesn’t bother waiting to find out. 

_SiriusSiriusPeterSirius_.

He doesn’t look around, doesn’t think—he scrambles up the rickety steps two at a time, avoiding the creaky ones by muscle memory. He doesn’t need to search the ramshackle house to know that if Sirius came here of his own accord, he’d be nowhere else but up in the bedroom. 

He hates everything about this place, but that little six by six bedroom is filled with good memories. Sirius and James had commandeered that room for him to recover in until morning, cleaning out the room for him to use, taking the time to decorate it, and he cannot recall the number of conversations he’s had with Sirius there, all those little talks that eventually built and deepened their relationship. If there’s any place he’d find Sirius now, this would be it.

_“Told you the Animagi forms would work. You really should listen to me once in a while, Rem.”_

He’s up the last step, onto the landing, heading down the narrow corridor to the very last door.

_“Didn’t I promise you that I’d fix your furry little problem? I always deliver on my promises, Rem, admit it. And… you can thank me anytime.”_

He’s so close. Just a few steps away.

_“We revolve around each other, Rem. I’ll always find my way back to you. Always.”_

The door is closed. He pushes it open.

 _SiriusSiriusPeterSiriusSirius_.

Sirius.

He’s there, right there, right within touching distance. His back is to him, and all he can see is a tangled mess of unkempt black hair and torn, ripped, blood-matted, disgustingly dirty clothes, hanging like a tent off his person. 

It’s Sirius.

The man before him then turns towards him, and he stumbles in the doorway, right where he stands.

This isn’t Sirius.

He’s… barely human, this man before him. He’s a skeleton—so thin, that every rib and bone could be mapped across his body with just a glance. His state of his clothes is even worse up from the front, and they make the ashen grey of his skin stand out with unhealthy pallor. His hair cannot even be called hair—it’s worse than James’ own untamed nest after his worst hangover. It’s so much longer, so much more entangled, so much grittier, so much duller. Everything about this man is dull, faded—half-dead.

This man before him is completely unrecognisable, barely a shell of a man—the tent-like clothes keep swaying slightly, and he realises with a start that this person is still unsteady on his feet. He’s moving like a drunkard, like he’s been drugged, and even with how horrifying this scene before him is, this isn’t what scares him.

No, it’s the madness which does. There’s madness everywhere, it’s written all over him. In his stance, his spasming hands, the uneven stubble on his face, the hollow sunkenness of his bloodless cheeks, the almost unnoticeable twitching at the left corner of his mouth. It’s in his eyes—his irises are completely swallowed up by his pupils, barely a hint of familiar silver to be seen. His eyes are black, a deep onyx, and there’s madness bred in its depths.

It terrifies him.

This man—this man is _unhinged_. This isn’t his Sirius.

The man recognises him, and his hand, just as unsteady as his footing, lowers it’s wand with a jerk. He shifts his feet, and his dilated eyes widen in shock. He blinks, and blinks again, then opens his mouth.

“Remus.”

His name sounds foreign, voiced from those cracked lips. The voice has no trace of its familiar smooth velvet, of its usual captivating suaveness. Sirius’ voice used to be his magnet, that posh charm both extravagant and enticing. His voice had been the embodiment of his natural charisma, and now, it is perfectly reflective of the harshness of this unrecognisable state—more so that his current look.

“Remus.”

His name, it’s growled again. That voice is harsh, grating, damaged. _Torn_. His mind instantly flashes back to twelve years ago, screaming at the very edge of sea, and hearing those tortured cries in return. He remembers that first dark night, when he thought he’d heard Sirius scream, over and over, and those three nights that followed it. 

He isn’t oblivious to the reason behind this man’s damaged vocal chords, and it tears him apart.

_“You doubt my charm, Rem? I’ll have you know, I’m a master at this. I have a natural swagger."_

And it was true. He’d been a natural charmer, but Azkaban has spared none of that charm in this man.

_This isn’t his Sirius._

“You’re back,” he states, because he doesn’t know what else to say to this stranger. “You’re late.”

The man shifts his feet again, swaying where he stands. The wand almost slips from his hand, but he catches himself in time.

He’s braced himself to see something like this, he’s prepared himself for this sight ever since he’d seen that damned picture in the paper nearly a year ago. But standing here, he realises that he’s never truly been ready, and the sheer strangeness of this scene still hits him square in the chest.

He’s been selfish, all these years. He’s been selfish to think that he’s the only one broken. He’s been so consumed by his own betrayal, his own hurt, that he never really put a thought to Sirius’ own state. 

Guilt strikes him like a punch to the gut.

But then the man before him smiles, and the harsh buzzing of his racing thoughts ebbs away into numbing silence. This man is smiling, he’s smiling at _him_. There’s madness in his smile too, like all else—there’s yellow in his teeth and dirt between his gums, but that smile—it’s familiar. Just like old times. It softens his eyes too, and that familiar crinkle shows itself at the corners.

This really is his Sirius.

“Miss me?” Sirius asks with that perfect smile, and he—he can’t help himself. Sirius opens his thin arms slowly, but he’s already rushing into them. They come together in an embrace—Sirius feels just as grimy and dirty as he looks, and he smells like the devil, but he doesn’t care, he can’t bring himself to bother. This is Sirius, his Sirius, here and reachable and tangible and _here_.

Sirius’ arms, thin and weak as they are, close around him with a fierce tightness that could only be from sheer stubbornness. He takes care not to crush him as he buries his face in the familiar curve of that neck. Sirius is shaking, but he holds on tight, and he hugs back just as hard. Merlin, he’s missed this.

This hug is very different from the many ones they’ve had before, so unfamiliar—the planes of their shapes are different, their bodies don’t fit together the way they did before. But yet, this is just so _familiar—the_ tenderness, the desperation—and he can’t get over it. 

This feels like a miracle. 

“Told you I’d find my way back, Rem,” is what’s whispered in his ear—the same words he’s been dreamt being said for twelve years. A rougher voice, a harsher voice, but the very same. 

“Yes, you did,” he replies, because that’s all he has. He can feel a single hot tear tracing down his cheek, soaking into the skin of Sirius’ exposed neck, but neither say anything about it.

“Always keep my promises, darling.”

He laughs wetly. Even when Sirius should rightfully be incapable of being smooth, he still finds a way to get his heart fluttering. It’s just like him, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

This moment is perfect, magical. 

Then comes the yelling.

He startles, shocked. He’d almost forgotten that they aren't alone, but the jarring shouts are a stark reminder that they have company.

Peter.

But no, it isn’t Peter. In fact, Peter Pettigrew is nowhere to be found. What he finds instead are three thirteen year olds, two looking terrified out of their minds, the third angry enough to look like he’s lost his.

Oh, right. He’d forgotten about Ron. He’s such a terrible teacher.

And apparently, both Harry and Hermione have now joined the Weasley kid here. He doesn’t know when exactly they’d arrived—he certainly hadn’t seen Harry anywhere within ten feet on the map when he’d last checked, so they must have gotten here during his mad dash to the tunnel.

Ron’s leg looks to be sprained, maybe broken; Hermione is cowering in the corner closest to him. And Harry, Harry’s doing most of the yelling, more furious than he had ever seen. He can make out short phrases through the clouded haze that is his mind, words like “you murderer!” and “killed my parents!” filtering through to his consciousness. 

“This can’t actually be happening,” Ron says faintly, and Harry shuts up for a millisecond to process the statement, before his yelling starts up again.

Sirius is silent next to him, his shaking getting more and more erratic, and he’s finally had enough. Harry deserves to know the truth, and the faster they get through this, the quicker he gets to check over _Scabbers_.

Now that he’s seen how far Sirius has spiralled, he wants nothing more than revenge. He’s used to pain, and he deserves every iota of it on himself for being the monster he is, but he can’t bear to see Sirius suffer with him.

He has never been so ready to kill someone in his _life_.

It goes well. Harry starts to understand, he can see it in his cub’s green eyes. The boy is so much like Lily, for all he looks like James. He has her quick, analytical mind, and he seems to be putting it to good use, putting the pieces together. Harry is their perfect legacy, and he’s proud of how his cub has turned out, even though he has had no part in his life before now.

Hermione—well she’s the smartest witch of her age for a reason. She’s apparently known about his furry problem for months already, and as shocked as he is, he isn’t really surprised. He’s grateful to her for keeping an open mind, though, and he wishes he can tell her that. This young girl is more understanding that witches and wizards thrice her age. 

Ron looks confused, but the poor boy seems out of it. He must be in too much pain to fully comprehend the details of their conversation. When they get out of this mess, the first thing he’ll get Sirius to do is apologise to young Weasley, because there’s no doubt that this has been Sirius’ fault, however accidentally.

Sirius. He’s standing right next to Sirius. He can’t believe Sirius is here with him tonight. When he started out his day today, he never imagined this.

He reaches out next to him, lets his hand brush Sirius’ fingers. He touches him because he can, because he wants to, because he hasn’t been able to touch this man for twelve years, and he’s finally getting a chance.

Hermione glances towards their hands, nearly hidden by Sirius’ loose robes—but not well enough, if she’s noticed. She looks right at him, right into his eyes, and he’s once again faced with the feeling that this young woman is one day going to do great things.

They look to be understanding. Harry’s finally calmed down, Hermione narrows her eyes calculatedly and Ron’s stopped chanting “bloody hell” with such worrying repetitiveness. They’re starting to come around.

Sirius is beside him, as tense with anticipation as he is.

And that’s when Severus Snape bursts in.

The man startles them all, throwing the door open with enough force to ricochet right off the cracked wall. He rushes in with a swirl of black robes, wand blazing, and throws himself before the three children. 

He’s thrown off his game, and Sirius isn’t faring any better. Sirius has his teeth gritted, baring them at Severus, and yes, this is perfect. This is just what they need. He’s been waiting for an answer for twelve years; how many more setbacks will they face?

 _“Why do you stick up for him, Rem? You’re too nice, honestly, That’s greasy git is a walking magnet for bad luck. I swear, Snivellous spoils_ everything _.”_

He usually never agrees with Sirius’ old assessment, but he’s right near murderous now, and recounting their whole sorry tale to three teenagers hasn’t been helping his seething rage. Of _course_ Severus has to barge in right at this moment.

But they handle it. Things get dramatic when Severus disarms him and Sirius, spitting and yelling vengeance all the while. The man moves towards the old door, cracked down the middle with the force with which it had banged shut, and blocks their means of escape. But Harry—cunning, smart, perfect Harry—disarms Severus right back, and Stuns him for good measure. 

He spies movement from the corner, and he sees Hermione lower her wand. He’s surprised. The girl is notorious in her respect for authority figures, and for her to even raise her wand against a teacher—any teacher—is indicative of a truly major change of heart.

They’re back on track. Ron catches _Scabbers_ by his tail, right as the little rat is about to scuttle away. Hermione’s Kneazle cat is doing a fantastic job playing bodyguard, and he’d be smiling at the scene if he isn’t so consumed with rage at the sight of that—that _rat_. 

The cards are on the table now. He gets a good glimpse of the missing toe as he takes the frantic rat from Ron and sets it on the floor, right between him and Sirius. He knows that this is Peter—the rat’s form looks so familiar, now that he sees it with new eyes—but seeing is believing. He needs to be certain.

He hasn’t even let go of the creature yet, but Sirius already has his wand up and pressed into its nose. There’s utter insanity in his eyes, and the intensity terrifies him. He shudders. Is Sirius going to kill Peter before they even get answers? Is he going to commit the very crime he was wrongly imprisoned for? 

_“I’ll protect all of you. You, James, Lily, Harry, Peter. I’ll protect all of you with my life, Rem, and if someone makes it past me without killing me first, I’ll search for them and hunt them down till I get to watch the blood pour out their skulls. I’ll do anything to keep you safe.”_

He can’t let Sirius fulfil this promise. Not yet.

Luckily, Harry stops them first. 

“Wait!” Harry says, and Sirius listens. He’s been waiting for this moment for twelve vengeful years of his life, but he listens.

“Promise me you won’t kill him.”

“Why?” Sirius rasps back, but he’s still listening.

“You say you’re not a murderer. Don’t start now.”

Sirius stares at Harry, then turns to look at him in complete shock, silently asking him what his reaction should be. 

He doesn’t give back any ideas. This needs to be Sirius’ decision. He tries to say this with his eyes, but he doesn’t know how well it’s being conveyed. He’s years out of practice.

But Sirius gets it, because he smiles that same little smile he’d have when they’d sneak out at midnight all through seventh year, making silent conversation with their eyes. They are twelve years out of practice, but they’ve started back up like a well-oiled machine, and he _relishes_ their harmony.

Sirius turns back to Harry, and he’s now talking to his godson. “ _Harry_ ,” he says, his voice even rougher with underlying meaning, “you don’t understand. _You don’t understand._ He _killed_ them. He killed James, Lily. He’s responsible for so many deaths. He killed those twelve Muggles. He needs to go.”

He holds on to the wiggling rat even tighter. He doesn’t know how it’s possible, but the murdering rodent is getting even more frantic in his hands.

“Which is why he shouldn’t be killed yet,” Harry replies, “what happens if he’s dead? We need him to confess to Fudge.”

Sirius doesn’t look like he agrees, but he heeds his godson's logic. Some of the madness fades from those dark eyes, and it instantly brings him relief.

“What should we do?” Sirius asks quietly, and that voice is still unrecognisable, but it has more of the steady calmness that always brings him that long-old feeling of safety. Sirius looks and sounds less unhinged already, and he finally lets himself hope that the toll Azkaban has taken on him could be somehow reversed. 

Sirius is redeemable. He isn’t lost to the madness yet.

Hermione pipes up from the corner, “Switch him back to his human form, and we’ll bind him and take him to Minister Fudge.”

He’s getting impatient. He wants to see Peter. 

“Why don’t we get this rat transformed first?” he says, “I want to see Peter.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath to his side, and when he turns, he sees Harry’s bright eyes narrowed, his fists clenched. “Yes, do that.”

Hermione is staring at the rat fixedly, as if willing it to change form with her mind alone. Ron looks disbelieving, but he’s completely silent, not moving an inch.

He turns back to Sirius, and Sirius is restless. “We’ll have to force him to show himself. Peter won’t transform of his own accord.”

Sirius’ nostrils flare, and he can see restless energy ripple across thin grey skin at the very mention of Peter’s name.

“Together?” Sirius asks lowly, and there’s fire in those black pupils.

_“Together forever, remember?”_

“Is there any doubt?” he replies. “Yes.”

Sirius grins madly, and the rat in his hands is squirming, squeaking. Even _Scabbers’_ tiny brain can comprehend that the crazy grin on Sirius Black’s stretched lips is a promise of death.

They point their wands at the frantic grey creature, and in perfect harmony, two bursts of blue-white light shoot out their wands. The two jets of light hit the rat at the exact same time, from opposing directions, and the rat is silhouetted now, completely enveloped in white light.

It shoots up, frozen in midair as directed by their wands, and the silhouette grows bigger and bigger, until it takes the shape of a man.

This is it.

He’s watching a dead man transform right before his eyes, and more than ever, this feels like a miracle. Then he sees the man, really sees him, and he changes his mind.

“I don’t need a miracle,” he scoffs quietly to himself. Nobody notices.

Peter Pettigrew crashes to the floor as the light fades with a quick flash. He looks different, unfamiliar. He hardly has any hair left, his front two teeth appear to have grown out over his bottom lip, his watery eyes are more black than blue, and his skin sags from his face with the look of a man who’s lost weight far too rapidly to be healthy.

Peter is broken, just like them. Peter deserves it.

 _Peter_.

That’s his old friend, right there, snivelling and cowering and wringing his hands on the floor. He looks into the face of his old friend, and betrayal cuts right through his heart. It stings his eyes, it burns his neck, it pierces the indentations where his wand meets his palm. It guts his stomach, and he wants to throw up. He’s _mourned_ for this man, and every tear he’s shed over this vermin is now just salt in the wound.

“Well, hello, Peter,” he says calmly, too calmly. He’s shaking all over, but doesn’t want it shown. “I haven’t seen you in so long.”

Sirius is—Sirius looks _mad_.

“S—Sirius… R—Remus,” Pettigrew’s squeaky voice stutters. “My friends… my old friends…”

Sirius’ wand arm jerks towards the cowering fool, but he stops him from casting anything. He wants to hear what Pettigrew says.

It isn’t satisfying.

Pettigrew is simpering, twitching, pleading with each one of them. The pleading begins with him, then moves to Sirius. Pettigrew’s mouth is moving, forming words, but none of them have any value. There’s just mindless begging, for them to spare the life of their “old friend.”

He’s furious.

He’s angry enough when the sycophant lays his filthy hand on Ron Weasley’s broken leg. The poor boy looks the epitome of horrified, and he snatches away his leg immediately, even with how much it must pain him to do so. But then Pettigrew moves towards Harry and Hermione, and he’s had enough.

“ _Incarcerous_ ,” he casts silently, and Pettigrew is bound with thin cords. He puts more magic into the spell, and it makes the cords razor thin, while maintaining its strength and tensility. He makes sure to pull the cords together just a bit too tight, and Pettigrew grimaces.

 _There_. That felt good.

Sirius’ eyes still burn, unsatisfied, but he turns towards him with a grin. 

“Would’ve done it at the start,” he says scratchily, “but _someone_ stopped me.”

He rolls his eyes. Only Sirius would try to joke in this state.

This really _is_ his Sirius.

They’re deciding what to do with the rat. Sirius wants to go for the kill here and now. Harry disagrees. 

“Sirius,” he whispers quietly, “Harry has as much right as us to have a say in this.”

“He’s a murderer,” Sirius says again. “He betrayed us all.”

“All the more reason to leave him to the Dementors,” is what Harry replies, and his head instantly jerks up of its own accord. Is he hearing things?

Next to him, Sirius looks just as startled. Harry stares back at them, chin jet, eyes burning. Defiant. _Vindictive_.

He likes the way this boy’s mind works. He looks exactly like James, but he has so much of Lily, and it’s utterly fascinating.

“You know firsthand, what it’s like in Azkaban,” Harry follows up. “Do you think it is a fitting punishment?” Sirius doesn’t reply. “Let the dementors take care of him.”

Sirius _listens_.

He’s proud of Sirius. He’s proud of Harry. He’s proud of his own restraint.

They make preparations to walk back up to the castle. The first thing he does is bandage up Ron’s bad leg, tied to a conjured splint—it is a long walk back, and he cannot bear to let this brave young thirteen year old suffer more pain. He knows what walking on a broken leg feels like, and the experience isn’t pretty.

They each assign themselves tasks for the way. They need to both watch Pettigrew, to make sure he doesn’t transform back and escape, and transport Severus, who is still laid out cold on the floor. Sirius offers to levitate the unconscious man, but he refuses to let him do it. Sirius looks disappointed, but agrees with an affronted scoff.

This isn’t the time for petty revenge, and he has no doubt that Sirius will use this opportunity to bump Severus’ form into as many hard surfaces as he possibly can.

They come up with a plan. He levitates Severus out himself, and he’s the first out into the tunnel. Behind him follows Ron, with Hermione supporting him, and as he turns back to check on them, he can see the pride in their eyes that they’ve been tasked with shepherding Pettigrew back to the castle. Ron, particularly, looks vindictive, jabbing his wand harshly into his former pet rat’s back at far too frequent intervals.

Sirius and Harry bring up the rear of their odd little procession. He’s assigned Harry to looking after Sirius— _make sure he doesn’t fall over himself, Harry, he looks like he could drop any second_ —and Sirius’ disgruntled face had been funny, in a horrific sort of way—the wild, matted hair and ghastly gaunt features certainly didn’t do him any wonders. 

But then his eyes had widened, the silver ring around his dark pupils sparkling with sudden comprehension, and the wonderingly grateful look sent his way at being given some alone time with his godson was all Sirius. His Sirius.

He reaches the end of the tunnel, and he sees the barest sliver of silver light through the slit of the Whomping Willow’s roots. His wand is occupied, levitating Severus, and he doesn’t want to put the man down on the pebbled dirt. He bends down, reaching for the nearest large stone, and tests that it has enough weight. He throws it at the gnarled knot, nestled at the very base of the tree, and it hits its target in a perfect bull’s eye.

He’s out of practice, but he’s still got it.

He climbs out, Severus’ limp body hovering before him, and he instantly sets the man down on the grass, far enough out of reach of the Willow’s branches. The night is dark, heavy, not a star in sight. The cloudy black makes the treeline of the Forbidden Forest look oppressive, and the grounds are deathly quiet.

He finds it perfect.

Sirius is back. He’s here, at Hogwarts, and soon, he’ll be a free man. Their life together can continue where it was paused, and everything will go on in calming consistence.

Ron, Hermione and Pettigrew come out next, and Ron immediately pushes his wand into Pettigrew’s back again, steering him towards the castle. He laughs quietly at the boy’s impatience, and Hermione is halting her friend by her hold on his arm with a soft chant of _slow down, Ron!_ and everything tonight feels like something out of a dream.

Finally, Sirius, then Harry, emerge out of the shadows of the tunnel. He smiles, seeing the two of them together, then does a double-take at the look on Harry’s face. 

He’s seen the boy grin before, but never like this. Harry has never looked so thoroughly, consumingly elated before in the one year he has known him. The boy is wearing an expression of pure joy, looking up at the back of Sirius’ head in complete enthrallment. 

What had the two of them discussed? What had Sirius said that painted such happiness on Harry’s features?

The two of them silently make their way to the edge of a small rise in the uneven ground, and they watch the flickering lights of the castle with unspoken agreement. Sirius says something, and Harry glances at him with a quick grin of awe, and he’s reminded of the times he’s seen little Harry gesture at Sirius with unconcealed wonderment in his eyes. 

Padfoot had always beaten the rest of them, hands down, as little Prongslet’s favourite ever adult. And now, twelve years later, their dynamic doesn’t seem to have changed a bit.

_“And the brave, mighty, dashing lion Padfoot carries the young prince Harry back to safety! Look, Harry, there’s the castle! We’re gonna make it!”_

_“Fa’ter, Pa’foo’!”_

_“I’m carrying you as fast as I can! Harry—Prongslet, don’t bounce so hard on Padfoot’s back! You don’t wanna break Padfoot, do you?”_

_“Go_ fa’ter _, Pa’foo’!”_

They’re all fine. Things are going smoothly, and he’s ready to wrap up the night’s exciting events up at the castle with an equally exhilarating finish.

Then the moon makes its way out behind a thick cloud. The _full_ moon.

His mind instantly flashes to the grey chalice with its spilled contents, rolling on the floor in his office, but it’s too late. How did he forget his potion? How could he possibly be so careless?

“He’s dangerous! He didn’t take his potion!” Hermione is screaming out into the night, and everyone is frozen in place, staring at him. 

He tries to gesture with his hands—he wants to tell them to run; run and don’t look back—but all he gets out are jagged screams. 

And around him, around the sounds of his own carnal growls, everything falls apart. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so ends the first arc! From the next chapter will begin part two. Tell me your thoughts! I'd love to hear from you, and all the effort you need is to click the comment button and scream at me. I wanna hear all the screams ;p
> 
> On a more serious note, I really do hope you guys like this. I've spent a, frankly, ridiculous amount of time and tears trying to get this just right, and it would please me so much to hear from you. Pretty please, with a cherry on top?


	6. 2.1 - In Indecision

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick A/N: The last chapter, like all the other chapters so far, are set in the canon timeline. This means that for the most part, everything that happens in canon happens here. It’s come to my attention that the last chapter, which ended in a fade-to-black, could be considered suggestive of an alternate outcome, but as I replied to a comment, everything remains the same. Peter gets away, Harry and Hermione go back in time (not that anyone knows - other than Dumbledore), Harry and Sirius nearly over-dose on Dementor-misery, Sirius escapes on a Hippogriff, everything.
> 
> I’ll drop a note when the story deviates from canon.
> 
> Chapter warnings: none

**Part 2 - Falling To Pieces**

* * *

_I went following the sun to be alone with everyone_

_Ooh, looking 'round a crowded room_

* * *

**2.1 - In Indecision**

Sirius has been staring at him for ages. Those heady silver eyes are boring into the skin at his hairline—because he’s too afraid of what he might do should he let himself look up and meet that strong gaze eye to eye—and his stomach is two parts _butterflies_ and eight parts _bottomless pit of discomfort and guilt_.

He’d planned on getting here for the meeting well in time, like he always does, but the trains had been delayed and he’d been the last one to reach. Before Dumbledore, of course—Dumbledore’s grandiose Floo entrances are well-known for being at least ten minutes after the decided meeting time, and everyone is sure to be assembled for his arrival—but his preferred seat was already occupied by Alastor, and he’d been forced to take the last open chair, barring Dumbledore’s at the head of the long table.

The last empty chair, right opposite Sirius.

He isn’t naive enough to presume that this is a coincidence. He just _knows_ that Sirius took advantage of his unexpected unpunctuality to engineer this seating arrangement. In fact, knowing him, Sirius had probably been doing it all the time, and he’d only been spared this torture before because he’d been vigilant enough to ensure that he was always _early_.

He can’t even blame Sirius. This, everything, it’s all his fault.

He can’t help but wish that he could have Apparated to a nearer point like all the rest, and Flooed directly to Grimmauld. But he’s had some shady characters on his tail after a gross misjudgement in situation about three days ago, and both Flooing and Apparition are easily traceable. He cannot risk being tracked to a location even remotely close to their headquarters. He’s lucky that he’s comfortable with Muggle travel, but the trains can be so unreliable sometimes.

“Remus, my boy, where are you with the werewolf camp up north?”

He makes the mistake of looking up, and the first thing he sees is liquid silver. 

“Remus?”

He tears his gaze away from Sirius’ eyes. 

“Right, the camp.” He turns to Albus, and the old man’s piercing stare is unnerving. The man’s eyes look sad, and he feels his throat grow tight. He doesn’t need pity. Not for this. Not for the mess he’s in with Sirius.

He firms his chin, steels his gaze, and delivers his report dispassionately. 

“… so they gave me the slip, and tipped off one of Greyback’s werewolf cronies. I don’t think they’ll be joining our side anytime soon.”

Albus’ light blue eyes suddenly look a lot sharper. 

“They tipped off Greyback?”

His face is as placid as ever, but he lets a little smirk show through. “False tip. Disguised myself a bit, they don’t know who I am. Greyback sent four henchmen on my tail, and they’re out looking for a Jonathan Hope. I threw them off a while back in disguise, sent them on another trail. They won’t be bothering us.”

“Good going, boy,” Moody piped up from _his_ seat. “Constant vigilance. You’d have made a good Auror.”

“Yes, he would have,” Sirius answers softly on his behalf, his whisper carrying through the room. “He’s certainly had plenty of practice.”

Sirius sneaks a small grin towards him, and they share a secret smile, and for a while he forgets the conflicting mess of emotions warring through him with regard to Sirius Black.

Albus sighs, and the heaviness in the sound draws his attention away from Sirius.

“Another ally lost.”

He can see Sirius straightening up from the corner of his eye, he can see him gearing up for a protest on his behalf, but Albus is right. They’re losing ground with each potential ally slipping from their hands.

“I’m sorry, Albus,” he says earnestly. “I tried. But if it helps, I think they had already been enlisted by Greyback and You-Know-Who. I don’t think they could ever be trusted.”

Albus smiles comfortingly, and his sharp eyes soften back into mild blue. “It happens, my boy. It’s the price of war. I know you gave it your best.”

His eyes flick down in acknowledgement, and he nods in the slightest. Albus smiles softly again, then turns to Shacklebolt to request his report. Kingsley speaks in his usual smooth baritone, and the low voice soothes his nerves, even as the Auror’s ghastly recount of the last Death Eater raid makes him cringe.

He can see Sirius calm down as he turns back to face him. He’d rather stay in his twisted position, attention focused on Albus or Shacklebolt or literally anyone else in the room, but unfortunately for him, age has taken a toll on his muscles and the awkward position would be torture on his sides.

He could stare at Tonks instead—she’s sitting to Sirius’ immediate right, an easy target for him to focus his gaze on—but he can’t. As much as he wants to, he can’t tear his eyes away from Sirius. It’s physically impossible for him to succeed, not when even after all these months, he still can’t get enough of looking at Sirius.

Sirius is staring at him again. He—he can’t look away.

It’s well hidden, but there’s confusion in those silver eyes. Pain. He’s the one to put it there, and he doesn’t know how to fix this.

He doesn’t know how to act around Sirius. 

Sirius looks so much fitter—there’s skin on his bones and a healthy colour to his flesh, and his eyes don’t have that hunted look within its depths. His teeth aren’t as white as he remembers, but much improved from its previous horrible state. His smile is less tinged with madness, but the undertone is still there. He’s wearing clothes that fit, and a demeanor full of charm, and things should go back to the way they were, but they haven’t.

Because things are far, far from what they used to be. He’s still sieving through old doubt and betrayal, still coming to terms with this new normal, and it doesn’t really help his adjustment issues when Sirius pulls capers like living in a godforsaken cave for months—no contact except through those ruddy untrained birds for messengers—while every Auror in the Ministry is on the lookout for him. He’d offered his measly old flat for Sirius to put himself up in, but Sirius had wanted to be on hand for his godson during the Triwizard Tournament.

He isn’t annoyed that Sirius chose Harry over him. How could he be? He loves Harry as much as Sirius does, and from the point of safety, Harry is more of a priority that he is. He could look after himself, but Harry needed the support and guidance, and Sirius was the best person to give it. Merlin knows he’s in no position to give Harry moral support—the guilt over not making that extra effort to find his cub still eats at him, and the more he stays away from Harry since that fateful day of his resignation from Hogwarts, the more daunting he finds it to see Harry’s face again. He’s a coward, and he knows it.

Sirius had spent last summer out of Europe, hiding from the Ministry. Dumbledore had set things up—not that he admitted it, but the twinkle in his eyes when he evaded the topic had been answer enough—and Sirius had no time for even a proper goodbye. 

_“I’ll see you soon, Remus. I’ll be back before you know it. You won’t even feel my absence.”_

He’d felt every minute. 

He remembers tossing and turning, missing Sirius, thinking of Sirius, wishing for Sirius. He remembers toying with doubt all over again, losing sleep and health over the burning sting of absence. 

He remembers hearing about Harry’s selection for Champion in the Tournament, remembers the frantic worry and fear for his cub, remembers feeling so _stupid_ for being unable to write to Harry, not even a single letter, not even a _stay safe, I believe in you_ , because he was so afraid to reach out, so afraid of earning Harry’s ire at his hypocrisy, so afraid of Harry thinking of him overstepping his role as his _former professor_. 

He remembers Sirius coming back to Britain after the announcement of the Triwizard scandal, feeling thankful at getting Sirius back again, relieved at being able to let go of his torturous depression. He remembers Sirius running off to the cave in the middle of the night, after just one night at his dingy little apartment with nothing to speak for his disappearance but a crumpled note on a makeshift bedside table.

He remembers falling back into that vicious cycle, that unhealthy routine of missing Sirius, thinking of Sirius, wishing for Sirius. 

And now Sirius is right here, living in his old ancestral home, looking after their new headquarters—looking at him with those pained eyes, expecting things to go back to normal—but he doesn’t remember the first thing of what _normal_ supposedly is.

It’s ironic, really. He’s always thought that he couldn’t breathe without Sirius, that Sirius is fresh air and soothing safety. He’s always thought that he could never survive without Sirius by his side, wishing for Sirius to come back, but in reality, he’s been breathing without Sirius for fourteen years now. Fourteen years, and he’s often short of breath—it’s _always_ hard to breathe—but he’s still breathing. 

He’s kept his head above water, but just barely enough to stay alive—and he’s at the point where he wonders whether it is Sirius’ absence that’s pulling him down, or his obsession over Sirius’ absence. 

What if all they have is the past? What if he needs to let go and move on?

Alastor’s rough voice cuts through his sad musings, and he’s pulled back into awareness. 

“… are we going to do, Albus?”

“We don’t have much in our power, Alastor,” he hears Dumbledore reply, but he’s only half listening. His glazed over eyes are quickly focusing, and all he sees is Sirius.

Why does Sirius consume him this way? He’s an adult; he should be beyond this. He has his head firmly on his shoulders. Strongly, cynically so. But Sirius always makes him feel like his heads are in the clouds, even when Sirius is just a thought suspended in reality.

His head feels like it’s floating in clouds—right before the fluffy white morphs into murky grey fog and completely obscures his vision.

Yes, that’s it. He’s blind around Sirius, and blind without him. He’s blind, and stupid, and stupidly in love.

Because he still _is_ in love with Sirius. The conflicting fight or flight emotions are wearing him down, and he’s not sure of anything anymore, but if there’s one thing he knows, it’s that he’s never stopped loving Sirius.

“… Albus, Death Eaters are organising a raid in the little village two miles from…” 

It’s… surreal. Unfamiliarity makes him uncomfortable, and this new version of Sirius should scare him off, but it doesn’t. Sirius is far from what he was—it’s criminally obvious—but everything about him still makes his heart flutter and his brain dizzy. He still feels his stomach swoop at Sirius’ smile, even as this new smile holds an edge that’s sharper than a metaphorical blade to the throat. He still melts at every word from Sirius’ lips—voice rough and broken, charm held together with string and twine—each word enunciated so differently, but the meaning just as deep and sincere. He still gets entranced by those silver eyes, even as each look reminds him harshly of the madness he’s seen brewing within. 

This man is hardly the man he thought he’d known, but he’s in love with him already. He’s re-learning this new Sirius, mapping him out again, and every new thing he learns only serves to remind him of how he’s already fallen for the man, even before he knows everything about him.

“We need to play this right, my boy. We cannot show our hand yet, not when Voldemort has the advantage of allies…” 

Sirius is recovering, and he’s made so much progress already. He’s unrecognisable from his Azkaban self, and as much as it brings him relief, he knows that even if Sirius was forever stuck in his Azkaban self, an unhinged, broken shell of a man, he still wouldn’t stop loving him. The idea is frightening—how can he admit that he’d ever be in love with a madman?—and he should hate himself for being so gone on this man, completely unheeding of the consequences.

But the truth is, he’s in love with every version of Sirius—the ones he knows, the ones he knows of, and the ones he doesn’t know at all. 

He fell in love with a fifteen year old boy all those years ago, handsome and confident, yet without direction. He was in love with the rebellious, callous teenager of their late Hogwarts years—unnecessarily cold, and disproportionately cruel to the ones he had deemed unlikeable. He was in love with the man who put family above all else—the one who took care of him after the full moon every month, the one who organised and arranged James and Lily’s wedding, the one who agonised most over their safety, the one who constantly babysat for his godson. He was in love with the optimistic yet realistic man of war—front-runner for the Order, star of the Auror force, secure and successful even in his recklessness, until he wasn’t.

For twelve years, he was in love with a man he’d thought a traitor, a murderer. Never mind the later years, where he’d restored his faith in Sirius piece by excruciating piece. He never really knew the truth, never really knew whether Sirius was truly an innocent, but he loved him anyway. 

And even now, how could he not love Sirius? This is the man who left everything behind to live in a cave near his godson when he needed the support; this is the man who is now spending his days and nights trapped in the one place he swore never to come back to, because the Order needed a suitable headquarters for their activities. This is the man who looks, talks and acts so much like the Sirius he’s known before, that it physically hurts to see him within his sights.

The moment he’d seen Sirius that night at the Whomping Willow, the very moment Sirius had smiled at him and made his world right again, he knew the truth. That even at Sirius’ lowest point, clinging onto the very dregs of life, he’d still love Sirius. Skeleton frame, straggly hair, ashen skin, unsteady focus, spasming limbs—the whole package. He’d take the madness, the instability, everything over losing Sirius completely. Because however hard he tried, he’d never be able to get over Sirius Black.

He had twelve, no, _fourteen_ years to try, and his best efforts were a laughable failure.

No matter what he does, he can’t shake off Sirius.

But does that mean that he doesn’t have other options open to him? Yes, he’s still hung up over his first lover, and as embarrassing as it is to admit, he’s quite certain that no one will truly condemn him for his failings in letting go. Sirius Black is a hard man to get over, and he’s had the full taste of what it’s like to be by Sirius’ side. 

But surely, surely he’s not doomed to this wretched state for the rest of his life. Hanging in midair—unsure, every single _second_ in Sirius’ presence, whether to speak or shut up, confront or avoid, sit down or stand up, turn left or right. Is this what the rest of his life is going to look like? Tiptoeing, sidestepping, undecided?

“… think it’s possible to get it done, Remus?” 

Is he truly capable of letting go and moving on?

“Remus?”

How hard could it be to start over? Should he even let Sirius into the equation this time around?

“Remus!”

There’s a light kick to his foot under the table, and his head instantly jerks up, before his eyes lock on Sirius’ subconsciously. There’s still that horrible look of hurt in those grey eyes, but it takes a backseat to the raw, unfiltered amusement he sees shining back at him. Confused, he looks at the rest of Sirius’ face, and the bright, doggish smirk Sirius sports is only highlighted by the way he sits back casually in his chair, arms crossed smugly. 

He looks around the table, and every single one of its occupants stares back at him in similar states of amusement. Mundungus has an eyebrow raised at him, half in irritation and half in glee, and he doesn’t know what to make of it. In fact, he’s a little offended. He’s still quite miffed at the loss of his watch, and he doesn’t appreciate the judgement from the irritating little man.

Albus calls his name again, and he turns his gaze to the head of the table sheepishly. 

“Sorry, Albus,” he says softly, grimacing, “I must have been distracted.”

Tonks, from where she sits on Sirius’ right, snorts loudly at his vague explanation, but he doesn’t give her the satisfaction of looking her way.

Albus chuckles, the breathy, soundless one that involves more shoulder-shaking and beard-bouncing than actual laughter, and coupled with the unmistakable twinkle in Albus’ light blue eyes, it instantly puts him at ease. Indeed, there is no one quite like Albus to reassure him when he’s anxious, a habit he tends to fall into very often in the kind old man’s presence.

“Thoughts do consume us sometimes, don’t they, my boy? Sometimes, they hinder us more than they help. Makes it trouble for everyone involved, hmm?”

Albus looks knowing, eyes twinkling brightly and mouth upturned encouragingly, and he would almost say that Albus knows the exact details of the inner conflict waging war in his mind, except that the advice Albus so generously gives him makes no sense whatsoever, and especially not in the context of his dilemma. He turns the words this way and that, trying to find the meaning in what Albus has said, and yet… nothing.

Next to Albus, Molly Weasley looks just as confused as he feels, and Alastor is frowning at his old friend in annoyed amusement. 

He decides to take it in stride with a smile, because no matter what anyone says, Albus Dumbledore is far from senile. He has no doubt that somewhere down the line, these cryptic words will make sense to him, just when he needs it.

“Er, yes,” he belatedly replies. “You’re right. Um, you had asked me something?”

Albus starts noticeably. The light-heartedness in his light eyes instantly fades, replaced by the icy fierceness of a leader, and he automatically feels himself growing serious and focused.

“Yes, yes,” Albus says to him, getting down to business again. “I had asked how soon you’d be able to send word to the pack in Shoreham. They are close enough to the village where the raid is supposed to take place, and we can use their assistance.”

Alastor continues where Albus has left off. “We don’t want our plans getting out, and we cannot send a message so soon, lest it be relayed to the Death Eaters before the raid. We have to cut it as close as we can in sending off the owl.”

He deliberates over it, and finally says, “I’ll deliver the message to them myself; it reduces the chances of our communication getting intercepted. Also, it will go over better with the pack—I don’t think they’ll appreciate being summoned out of the blue. It won’t take longer than a day to reach Shoreham, not by my estimates.” 

“Muggle trains?” Kingsley asks him thoughtfully, and he nods in reply.

“Why can’t you just use a broom?” Tonks pipes up, but Arthur answers her before he gets the chance to. 

“The Ministry finds a way to track everything,” Arthur says tiredly. “Including broom travellers. If Remus is sighted touching down in Shoreham, suspicions will be raised. With the raid taking place soon after—they’ll find a way to pin the attacks on the werewolves. We can’t have that.”

“Besides,” Alastor adds, “You-Know-Who has eyes and ears in the Ministry, and if they find out—” 

“—we’re screwed,” Tonks finishes for him.

Alastor snorts, but nods reluctantly. 

“Not the way I’d put it,” Albus observes with a smile, “but, yes.”

“We have time,” Sirius says roughly, speaking up with faltering conviction. “We have at least two weeks to get things together. We don’t have much to plan, other than getting the werewolves in Shoreham to lend a hand and getting out before the Aurors are lured in.”

“True,” Albus concedes with a bow of his silvery head, “but one can never anticipate how many things can go wrong. We’re on our own, Sirius. The Ministry—” he sighs. “The Ministry is not willing to listen or co-operate. The Ministry is not on our side. Our forces are split up with patrols, guarding the Department of Mysteries and doing this—stopping raids. We’re spread thin, and Severus’ sources say that this is going to be a big one. We cannot afford slip-ups, my boy.”

Sirius scoffs. “Why do you trust bloody Sni—” Sirius starts up harshly, and before he knows what he’s doing, he delivers a sharp kick across the table to Sirius’ leg. Sirius turns, startled, and he’s glaring back at him the way he used to when Sirius went too far, and Sirius clams up with widened eyes and a single gulp, just like the old days.

Albus seems surprised at the lack of retort towards _Snivellous’ bloody untrustworthy ways_ , before the man realises what he must have done and shoots him a look of mild amusement. 

He doesn’t know what came over him, but the kick and the glare just felt so natural—for a minute, he’d forgotten that he didn’t have the first idea of how to act around Sirius Black, and just went with his instincts. What does it mean, that the minute he stops thinking about his mess of a situation, he relapses back into what they used to be? Is this his brain trying to tell him something? That he should just let things happen and they’ll fall into place? 

He looks back at Sirius warily, and Sirius still has his mouth firmly shut tight. Sirius looks utterly shell-shocked, and he knows that the shock is both at his reprimand and Sirius’ own reaction. Tonks looks to be trying very hard to repress a gleeful cackle or two, hot pink hair falling in locks over her eyes as she claps her hand over her mouth, and from the look of things, she is failing miserably. 

The meeting progresses without many more disruptions. There’s a screaming match between Molly and Alastor at one point—something about ghastly, pest-ridden houses and the children’s safety—and Molly almost pulls out her wand before Arthur manages to break things up and calm both of them down. The rest of the Order wisely keeps their mouth shut, and for a wonder, there’s no snide comment from Sirius over Molly’s temper, or her voice, or her red face. Arthur shoots _him_ a grateful look, oddly enough, as if _he’s_ the one responsible for getting Sirius to keep quiet. 

Soon enough, the meeting comes to an end. People are getting up, pushing their chairs in, and in the blink of an eye there are small clusters of people grouped together in twos and threes, discussing plans and lighter matters. It reminds him of a party, albeit, a very serious looking one. All they need are drinks in their hands and little plates of hors d'oeuvres set on the long table, and the dilapidated, gloomy state of the basement kitchen could almost be overlooked.

He can’t get out of here fast enough.

He subtly makes his way to the exit, slinking through the door, and as he climbs up the worn wooden steps up to the ground floor of Grimmauld Place, he thinks he’s made his escape unnoticed. He doesn’t need to stay here anyway. He’s filled up his quota of being around Sirius for the day, and each time he leaves this place, he always walks out more confused and frustrated than he feels when he comes in.

He’s at the very last step, standing in the entrance hall now, and the door is only twenty feet away. 

He needs to think about a place to sleep for the night. The park bench he’s been sleeping on for the past week is one he’s used too frequently, and he needs to find another place before he gets kicked out the park. He’s lucky that everything he owns fits so easily in Sirius’ brown leather suitcase—it makes things so much easier to move around. It wasn’t like he needed his wretched old apartment to stay in, since he hardly slept there most nights anyway. The place was miserable, and the rent was just another unnecessary expense. He’s better off sleeping on park benches.

He’s ten feet away from the door. Ten feet, and he can step out into the night and pretend that he’s fine. He has more pressing problems to attend to, and he can’t let Sirius take over his mind. 

Of course, that’s when Sirius’ voice stops him.

“Remus? What are you doing?”

He sighs. He really shouldn’t be surprised that Sirius noticed his absence.

He turns around to face Sirius quickly, but his mind cannot think of a good enough excuse to explain himself. Too late, he realises that his hand is running through his hair the way it does when he’s uncomfortable.

Of course, Sirius notices it too. 

Sirius frowns, and he can feel a now familiar pull in his chest at putting that frown there. He settles for a clipped, honest answer, because his mind is too blank to come up with a lie.

“I’m leaving.”

He cannot see Sirius’ eyes very clearly in the dark hallway, but they look hurt. 

“Why?” Sirius asks evenly. “Do you have somewhere to be?”

“I—I just need to go, Sirius,” he replies, his voice thick. “I’m sorry, but I really need to leave.”

Sirius takes a step toward him, and another and another, and every cell in his body screams at him to take a step back, to take a step closer. It takes everything in him to stay where he is.

“Stay for dinner,” Sirius says, almost pleading. “Molly’s making stew. You like stew, remember? Molly’s stews are always good.”

His hand automatically travels to his pocket, feeling around for the two silky wrappers in its depths. His stomach rumbles softly, reminding him that he hasn’t eaten anything much for a while, besides the granola bars. The stew would be so appetising—he could save the two bars in his pocket for tomorrow. 

Sirius must see the indecision on his face. There’s the faintest glimmer of hope shining on the edge of his lips when he smiles, and he moves even closer, letting the small pool of light from the lamp on the wall fall on his features. In the dim, yellowish glow of the lamp, his eyes shine a glittering black.

“Come on,” Sirius says, voice soft. “Stay.”

“I can’t, Sirius.”

"Why?"

Why can he not stay? Isn’t a warm, home-cooked dinner worth the discomfort that comes with being around Sirius? 

“I—I just can’t.”

What difference does a single meal make in the long run? If he leaves now, maybe he can still retain a part of his sanity.

Sirius’ face breaks, and he’s instantly struck with the sharp pang of hurt that tells him he’s made the wrong decision. He can feel his jaw spasm, but it’s nothing against the raw emotion in Sirius’ accusing eyes.

“Can’t even lie to my face anymore, huh, Remus? Am I not even worth a lie now?” 

He stutters, blindsided. “I—I didn’t—”

Sirius’ shoulders slump, and the harshness fades from his tone.

“I just—I don’t know what to do, Rem. Do you think I haven’t noticed you running away from me? You can’t even bear to stay in the same room as me for more than an hour!”

Sirius is twisting his fingers together, wringing his hands, and his hoarse voice breaks at the end. He’s never, _never_ seen Sirius this unsure before, and once again, he remembers that he isn’t the only one dealing with the fallout—that Sirius must be just as affected as he is by this.

Merlin, he is such a fool. How could he be this selfish? How could he forget to consider Sirius? How—How did he get so wrapped up in his own issues that he pushed Sirius out without even considering his feelings? They might have been lovers, but before that, before that they were _friends_. Godric, he’s a horrible friend.

“Is it—is it because of me? Is it because of who I am now?” Sirius asks softly, painfully, and his heart just keeps on breaking. He did this. _He did this._ “Because I—I’m trying, Rem, I’m trying so hard to be better for you, but you’re not even around to see it.”

He’s never seen Sirius this unconfident in his life, not for one second—not when his Uncle Alphard died, not when he ran away from home, not when he left for work for his first ever Auror mission in the field, not when they had all sat around in Dumbledore’s office hearing him recount the prophecy. 

“No.” He shakes his head earnestly, the words stumbling out of his mouth before he can process what he’s saying, because Sirius is hurt and hesitant, and he’s the one who did this. “No, no, no—it’s not—it’s not you—it’s—I just, I don’t know how to—how to—”

_I just don’t know how to act around you. I’m a coward, Sirius. I’m a coward and a fool._

Sirius straightens just the slightest, and the horrifying insecurity in his eyes seeps away with each unintelligible word that continues to spew out his mouth. He’s smiling a bit now—wry amusement, like he’s trying to contain laughter—but he knows that Sirius’ possible laughter isn’t aimed at him.

“It’s all so new and confusing, isn’t it?” Sirius asks, commiserating, and he nods, relieved. He doesn’t know how Sirius understood what he was trying to say with all his incoherent mumbling, but Sirius always did have a knack for reading his mind.

“I never expected to be back here,” Sirius continues, looking around at the dreary wallpaper in distaste. His gaze falls over the dusty grey curtain behind which his mother’s portrait lies, and the curl of his lips, just for a second, sharpens to something nasty. “I thought I was rid of this place for good,” he says, his glare boring holes through the dirt smudged grey fabric. 

Sirius looks at him then, and his eyes soften instantly, like the flick of a switch. “Everything is so different,” he breathes, just a few feet away. “The Order, the members—I never thought that Dumbledore could look even older that he did before, but he proved me wrong.”

He can feel his lips quirk in a bare imitation of amusement. Sirius is doing this on purpose, trying to make him smile—Sirius always does it, consistently, like a ritual—but he cannot muster the lightness to smile right now, not when Sirius is finally opening up the way they both should have months ago.

“The Order lineup is so different. Fabian and Gideon, Alice and Frank—all gone. So many newer faces in their places. Merlin, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to Moody’s eye. And his hair is all greyed out! And little Dora, all grown up now—” He shakes his head in bemusement.

“Kingsley hasn’t changed,” he pointed out mildly, feeling better despite himself. “And Mundungus,” he adds, unable to keep out the trace of annoyance that came with the name. “Mundungus Fletcher is _exactly_ the same.”

Sirius grins, bright and doggish, and Merlin, he should feel something, _anything_ , but all he feels is happiness—the cautious, hopeful kind he doesn’t deserve. Where is the guilt? Where is the self-derision at seeing Sirius smile and only remembering the pain of the times Sirius _wasn’t_ around to smile at him?

“Oh, yeah,” Sirius snorts, “Shacklebolt hasn’t changed at all. Still bald, still stoic, and he still clams up after every ten words he speaks.”

“Sirius!”

“And Dung, oh, I bet there’s a story behind that. I saw the look on your face when you mentioned him, and for you, that’s the equivalent of burning hatred. Good old Remus finally find himself a mortal enemy like a normal person and he decides to hate _Dung,_ of all people? Tell me about it later, I gotta hear everything.”

“Sirius!” he cries again softly. “They’re all downstairs! What if they hear you?”

Sirius huffs out a quiet laugh, and—oh.

“Got you, didn’t I?” Sirius asks teasingly through his laughs, and he finally lets himself smile, even as he glares back. Sirius just laughs harder.

“Oh, I missed this,” Sirius wheezes out when he finally stops. “It’s so easy to tease you, Rem, you’re always so _nice_. You haven’t changed a bit.”

He stiffens. That’s the farthest from the truth. He’s practically an antithesis of what he was, and every one of his redeeming qualities have been lost in the transformation. He isn’t remotely carefree, whittled down to a mere husk of anxiety, worry and failure. He’s stupid and he’s a fool, and an even bigger coward than he was before. He looks like the walking dead and everything about him screams defeat, when he was never terribly attractive to begin with.

_You haven’t changed a bit._

Can Sirius not see? Can Sirius not see how different he is now? How time and loneliness has changed him?

He’s opening his mouth, a retort tumbling off his lips, and too late, he realises that Sirius’ comment must have just been made in jest.

“Sirius, what are you talking about? I am _nothing_ like my past self, don’t you see—”

Sirius’ face shutters, and there’s an inexplicable surge of pain in those dark eyes.

He stops as quickly as he’d started, the words struggling to escape stuck in his throat. What has he said that upset Sirius so much?

He’s about to apologise, try to make things right again—they were doing so _good_ before he messed it up, he shouldn’t have said anything—but before he speaks, there’s a loud, ear-splitting pop just to his right, and the Weasley twins appear four feet from them in a blur of red and green with their usual accompanying gusto.

His wand is out before he knows it, and he only has his reflexes to thank for stopping himself from attacking them at the first ripple of disturbed air. The Weasley boys are lucky they haven’t ended up with a severed limb courtesy of his wand, but the twins are already in motion, talking over each other and completely heedless of the peril they could so easily have been in at his hands.

“Oh, good, you all are out,” the one on the left starts.

“Is the meeting over then? Dumbledore kept you—” 

“—longer than usual this time. Something—” 

“—interesting afoot?”

The two finish up together in perfect unison, twin expressions of curious mischief on their freckled faces, their brown eyes twinkling with almost the same fervour as Dumbledore’s. Hysterically, he wonders how long they’ve been practicing that damned twinkle.

His mouth is opening and closing like a fish—he’s torn between the need to scold them for popping in so unannounced and tell them that it’s none of their business, and bite his lip from blurting out that these two hooligans remind him so much of Sirius and James from their earlier Hogwarts years, that the resemblance is uncanny.

He’s at a complete loss for words. He chances a glance towards Sirius, hoping that Sirius has a better idea of how to deal with the twins, because right now? His brain is mush. Sirius always does have that effect on him, even when the man is infuriatingly puzzling.

Sirius is gaping at the twins, and his wrist is holding his wand arm down loosely, as if he had had to physically restrain himself from hexing their intruders. The man is obviously in shock—and it’s even more obvious that even if they did get the twins out of the way, there was no way their conversation would be continued tonight.

It’s that very thought that snaps him out of his speechlessness, oddly enough, and he sighs. 

Another moment lost. Lately, it feels like his relationship with Sirius is nothing but a handful of stolen moments, inevitably snatched away. It’s like their moments together do not belong to them, like they’re being punished for their presumptuousness by taking them in the first place.

He shakes his head as he turns back to the twins. They stare back at him with an odd cross between guileless puppy eyes and untold mischief. Side by side they stand, with their bright red hair and striking apple green sweaters, each a perfect replica of the other, and the one on the right—Fred, he’s sure—has the gall to rock on his feet with his hands behind his back, the perfect picture of innocence.

“Do you need something, boys?” he asks them, resigned, because he knows that no amount of caution will sway these two from doing what they like. The twins’ current fixation is on their Apparition licenses, and they treat their ability to now legally Apparate anywhere like two little children with a shiny new toy.

The two look at each other, shrug, then turn back to him. George—he’s sure it’s George—rolls his eyes, as if amused by his obvious deflection of their questions. 

“Is Mum downstairs?” George asks. 

“We need to talk to her,” Fred tacks on.

There’s the faintest hint of spluttering to his left. Sirius is nodding mutely, then verbally confirms that _yes, their mother is downstairs_. The twins perks up in unison, then proceed to very exuberantly make their way between him and Sirius, babbling rapidly about shops and flats and Skiving Snackboxes, whatever those might be. They casually walk between the few feet of tangibly coiled tension separating him from Sirius as if they’re walking through thin air.

It snaps him out of his Sirius-induced daze, and his thoughts, slow as syrup and yet so very scattered, steady into its usual calming rapidness. 

He watches the twins somewhat fondly as they cross the curtained portrait of Sirius’ mother and continue their mysterious discussion softly, not even a single questioning glance directed at him or Sirius regarding the obvious strain in their stances. He has no doubt that the twins had picked up the tail end of their conversation, and he’s grateful for their silence. 

Then Fred—it has to be Fred—turns and _winks_ at him when they stand at the edge of the wooden steps leading down to the basement. 

The little twerp grins broadly, nudging his brother. “We’ll let you get back to your… discussion,” Fred says, punctuating his statement with a waggle of his red eyebrows, and he instantly loses any trace of fondness he feels for these two. 

Sure, he misses James and Sirius’ well-matched personalities, but he has no desire to relive those memories with the twins. Wrangling James and Sirius’ wild ideas into submission was a harrowing enough experience the first time.

“ _Go,_ ” he stresses, rolling his eyes, and no, he’s feeling far from affectionate, he really is. Sirius turns to him with a grin that says _you’re not fooling me, Moony_ , and even with the renewed tightness in those grey eyes, that old, familiar grin settles something in the back of his mind that he didn’t know needed settling.

George grins too, and the twins simultaneously turn back to the steps when there’s a loud crash from the basement, two squabbling voices, muffled yet vaguely identifiable, and the sound of hurried footsteps stomping up the creaky steps. 

“Oh good, Mum’s coming up,” George states, and the twins back away from the staircase so that they don’t block the entrance. Sirius walks closer towards him, and the twins take Sirius’ place.

He catches a flash of red hair, and soon enough, Molly’s features float into view as she hurries up the stairs. The twins take one look at her flustered face, glance at each other, and mutter something along the lines of _it can wait_ before they disappear with a pop in a swirl of bright green.

He has to amend his assessment of the twins. Obviously, they are much smarter than Sirius and James were. They certainly have a healthy dose of self-preservation in them, which is far more than he could ever say for either Padfoot or Prongs.

He looks at Molly as she climbs up the last steps, stubborn determination and annoyed frustration warring over her reddened features, and he wishes he could Disapparate himself. 

"Was that the twins?" she asks, glaring at the empty spot where the boys were just a second ago, and he and Sirius do a fantastic job pretending that her question is rhetorical. 

"Honestly, those boys," she huffs, "always acting like children."

She shakes her head once, then turns to him, and her anger is instantly forgotten.

"Remus, dear," she says with a bright smile, "I've been looking for you. You're staying for dinner, aren't you? I'm making stew."

"Uh—no, Molly," he replies quickly. "Thank you, but I'm afraid I must leave. Dinner sounds delicious, through."

"Oh, but you _must_ stay!" Molly exclaims, worried. "You need to eat, Remus, get some flesh on those bones. And I know you like my stew! Don't leave yet."

Her brown eyes glint with stubborn determination, and the set of her face is so similar to Lily's, he just knows that if Lily had the chance, the two women would have gotten on together like a house on fire.

"I'm sorry, Molly, but I can't stay. I have quite the walk to make."

His excuse is half-hearted, and he knows it. Molly frowns at him, puzzled.

"Well then," she says, "Why don't you stay here for the night? I can make up a room for you—I’m sure Ron won’t mind sharing with the twins for one night. I won't take no for an answer, Remus. You really do need to eat. I don't think you've had a proper, home-cooked meal in a while."

His eyes widen in desperation. He looks to Sirius for help, but none is forthcoming. Sirius looks completely impassive, but his eyes shine with smug satisfaction. He gives Sirius his best glare, and it has no effect on him.

Molly clears her throat, and looks at him pointedly. "You're staying, then?"

He stutters, hard pressed to form a suitable rejection. He can feel Sirius smirking behind him, eyes boring into the back of his head.

"I—I really should—"

Molly's glare hardens, and his traitorous voice stops in its tracks. Before he can dig himself further in, however, there's the sound of soft footfalls on the landing and Albus' silvery head comes into view. Light blue eyes peer up at them through half-moon spectacles.

"Albus!" Molly exclaims, turning around to face him, "I didn't hear you come up."

Albus chuckles, and climbs up the last step with a swish of his orange and deep purple robes. He smiles at her, but doesn't acknowledge the question in her tone. 

He wonders how long Albus has been listening in on their conversation, and if he's been waiting for the perfect time to make his presence known.

"Remus, my boy, there you are. I must discuss something with you after dinner. I'd like you to stay back later, if it's alright with you."

Albus' eyes twinkle as bright as ever, and he just knows that there's something up the man's fluorescent sleeve. 

"Albus—" he starts, but is soon interrupted by the man. 

"Also, I should suggest that you take Molly up on her offer to stay, my boy. The Wizard Wireless proclaims a light rain tonight. Wouldn't want you to catch a chill."

He’s getting worried. Albus is giving out hints to his situation, and it couldn’t in any way be construed as a good thing. 

“Um, Rem?” Sirius calls to him, puzzled, and he cringes on reflex. This is one of the times he feels like cursing Sirius for his sharp ex-Auror mind. “Isn’t your apartment less than fifteen minutes away by bus? What’s he talking about?”

“Oh, um, I don’t live there anymore.”

He tries for casual, but he’s way off the mark—both Sirius and Molly’s expressions are proof enough of his failure.

Albus is smiling benevolently, but underneath is what he imagines to be the smuggest smirk Albus could possibly have at being the one to plant the seeds of doubt to a secret he’s successfully held for weeks. He doesn’t even want to know how Albus came to know of his living situation in the first place. His brain is currently not equipped to deal with an answer more implicating than _Albus Dumbledore knows everything_. 

“Oh, Remus, have you rented another place?” Molly asks, bright and excited. “Merlin, I’m pleased for you! Don’t take this the wrong way, Remus dear, but your old flat was in a terrible neighbourhood. Why, I worried for you all the time!”

He backtracks, cringing internally. “Uh, no, Molly, I—”

“You should have said something,” Molly continues, jabbering with increased speed. “I would have brought over something for your first night. Some roast, maybe. And one of us could have come over to help you move and unpack!”

He’s overwhelmed by the overflow of words, but Molly’s kindness touches him, making him feel light. He had forgotten how big her heart is, always giving even when she barely has anything to give. The Weasleys are blessed, he thinks, to have both her and Arthur brightening up their home.

“Thank you, Molly, truly, but that wouldn’t have been necessary.” He takes a deep breath, preparing to reveal his secret and bracing for the inevitable chaos.

“I haven’t rented another apartment. Or any place, really. I’m more of a… free bird right now.”

“You’re what?” Sirius shoots out instantly, and to his credit, his voice is firm and even. Molly, on the other hand, sounds on the verge of hysterical. 

“You’re living on the streets?! Did that nasty man kick you out?”

“No, no,” he raises his palms, aiming to placate her, “My landlord didn’t evict me. The rent was just too high an expense. I travel a lot, as you know, so I barely lived there anyway, and like you said, the neighbourhood was terrible. Not much about the flat that made me want to stay either,” he finishes in a mumble, grimacing as he thinks of the ratty furniture and the leak in the pipes. 

“So you _are_ living on the streets!” Molly reiterates, now firmly into the territory of hysterical. “Oh, you poor man! Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Oh no, Molly, I’m fine. I have everything I need in my suitcase.” He pats his pocket for emphasis, where he has nestled his compressed leather _Professor Moony_ suitcase. “I don’t mind bedding down in the park, and the park benches are surprisingly comfortable. I can hardly tell the difference.”

Molly gapes at him, then at Sirius, and finally at Dumbledore before her incredulous gaze settles back on him. Dumbledore, on the other hand, looks completely unfazed, his arms genially crossed with his wrinkled hands tucked into his wide sleeves. 

He can’t see Sirius’ face at his current angle, and it worries him that he doesn’t know what the man is thinking. Sirius hasn’t said a word so far, but he can feel a hard gaze digging strongly into his back, which can only mean two things: that Sirius’ reaction is too explosive to reveal in front of the others, or that Sirius is hatching up a plan, one he most likely wouldn’t like. With his luck, he just knows that it is going to be both.

Molly’s sporadic spluttering winds down soon enough, only to be replaced by another of those stubborn, determined looks he’s growing both fond and fearful of. 

She’s about to speak, when a loud _thud_ interrupts her undoubtedly impassioned speech. The strangled, “I’m okay!” makes him blink, then unbelievably, there’s the stomping of yet another pair of feet up the steps. 

He can hazard a guess as to who the footsteps belong to, but the sight of Tonks’ bright pink hair still catches him off guard, and both his eyebrows climb up his forehead, wrinkling his brow.

“Woah, quite the convention here, eh?” Tonks says when she catches sight of the lot of them. She looks surprised, but takes it in her stride easily. He, on the other hand, is quite bemused. He wonders how many others will traffic this area before he and Sirius are finally left alone.

“What’s wrong, dear?” Molly asks her.

“Ah, it’s nothing,” she says breezily. “Moody wanted to run something by Dumbledore, so he asked me to find him. You’d think that after I was through being his pupil he’d stop treating me like an assistant, right?” She laughs brightly and starts up again before any of them can say a word. “I looked around but I couldn’t spot Dumbledore—man, that kitchen is huge—so I figured he’d be upstairs, since I didn’t hear the Floo going. So anyway, here I am.”

She turns to Albus cheerfully, addressing him. “But you seem to be in a very important and serious discussion, so don’t mind me. I’ll just stay right here and wait till you finish, Headmaster. Look, you won’t hear a peep out of me.”

She bounces over to a relatively shadowed corner by Molly’s side, winking at him, and then stands there staring far too curiously at all of them in turn.

“Well?” she asks when they silently stay where they are. “Continue!”

Molly is the first to recover, getting her bearings again. Albus doesn’t count, since his genial smile hasn’t given an inch all through Tonks’ spiel. 

“Y—Yes, alright,” Molly stutters, “Where were we?”

“Remus’ living situation, I believe,” Albus supplies.

“Ooh, gossip,” he catches from the corner, and he pretends he didn’t hear Tonks’ gleeful whisper.

“Right, yes,” Molly nods.

“Remus also mentioned park benches,” Albus adds helpfully, ignoring his accusing stare.

“Yes, well,” she says firmly, hands on her hips, “I can’t have that now. You aren’t just an Order member, Remus, you’re also a friend. I cannot in good conscience let you sleep out in the open like that! You’re completely unprotected out there—what happens when something terrible happens to you? You cannot guard yourself from an attack, nor can you raise wards in a Muggle area.”

“Why’s he sleeping on a park bench?” Tonks mutters loudly, and he opts to ignore her again, as do Molly and Albus.

He _has_ been stressing about it, in all honesty. He’s been sleeping with one eye open, wand tucked awkwardly under the folds of his patched up coat, ready and waiting for a hostile to get wind of his location and attempt his murder in the dead of the night. His energy has been far from optimal lately, and he knows exactly where the blame lies.

Of course, he can’t tell Molly that.

“But Molly—” 

“No buts, dear. You’ll be sleeping here from now on, for the sake of my health if not for yours. I’d be worrying about you day and night! No, you’re staying here. I’ll think up something for you, don’t you worry.”

“But Molly, there’s no room here,” he tries to reason with her. “The children have most of the bedrooms, and they’re all sharing as it is. We cannot inconvenience them further. Harry may come over any time to stay here for the rest of the summer, which is yet another person in the house. I cannot bunk down in the drawing or dining room, not with them in its current state. There’s no place here, and I don’t mind where I am, not at all.”

Molly deflates, but the stubbornness is still there. “It isn’t right, Remus. You need a proper place to stay, even if you don’t use it much. I’ll check up in the attic, see if I can clear some space for you—temporary of course, just till I figure something out, or—”

Her eyes light up with sudden realisation, and she turns to Sirius, who walks forward to stand by his right shoulder. 

“Sirius! Your brother’s old room is still shut up, I can fix it for Remus! And everything works out perfectly, oh, how wonderful—”

“Absolutely not,” Sirius stops her. “ _No one_ is touching Regulus’ room.”

Molly looks annoyed now, and the full force of her withering glare is fixed on Sirius. “How can you be so selfish, Sirius? Your friend needs a place to stay, would you honestly deny the man a proper bed to sleep in?”

He can feel shivers crawling up his spine just by being in the presence of Molly’s glare, and he has no idea how Sirius maintains his impassive expression in the face of her ire. He wonders what exactly Sirius is up to—because the man definitely has something up his sleeve—and he hopes it doesn’t bode too badly for him.

“No, Molly. Regulus’ room will not be messed with.” A beat. “He’ll sleep with me.”

No, no, no, no, _no_.

“Sirius, I shouldn’t—”

Sirius turns to him then, and the cold, challenging stare stops him in his tracks. Sirius tilts his chin up, squaring his jaw like he’s preparing for battle—not a fight, but something to fight _for_ . The difference staggers him, because unless he’s reading the signs wrong, _he_ is the something Sirius wants to fight for. 

“You’re staying with me, Remus,” Sirius says firmly, and he’s powerless to shake his head and step back. “No arguments.”

Molly makes a sound, and they both turn to look like her. She’s evaluating them both, her eyes screwed up, deep in thought, and he has but a moment to feel nervous about her assessment of them before she nods decisively, clapping her hands.

“That’s perfect, Sirius. A lovely compromise. And I’m sure you’ll take good care of Remus and make sure he isn’t _uncomfortable_.” 

Molly stresses the word like a warning, and when Sirius lowers his head with an agreeing _of course, Molly_ , something passes through the air that distinctively feels like the verbal equivalent of a handshake.

“This is gonna be so _interesting_ ,” Tonks’ pipes up gleefully, “I can’t wait to see the fun—” Molly shoots her an incredulous look, and she instantly bites her lip, abashed. “Shutting up now,” she whispers sheepishly.

Albus, the grandfatherly traitor that he is, graces them all with a sage, agreeable smile.

“Wonderful, my boys! I’m sure you both will come to like this arrangement very much.” The ever-present twinkle in the old man’s eyes has never been more frustrating. He can’t quite figure out whether Albus is mocking them or insinuating something. He doesn’t quite want to know the answer.

It hits him then, what he’s just agreed to by his silence. Sharing a room with Sirius. Sharing a space with Sirius.

Sharing a bed with Sirius.

_Nononono._

This might just be the very thing that gets him round the bend. If anything, this will be what breaks him. 

“Sirius, do you want me to come around to your room and help you clear some space for him, or do you want to do it yourself?”

He feels lightheaded, all of a sudden. A brief spell of dizziness overtakes him, and it is only the warm hand placing itself on his shoulder which steadies and centers him. 

“Oh no, Molly, that won’t be necessary. I can manage just fine, and it won’t take much effort. Remus and I have had years of experience living together, so it won’t take much for us to fall back into routine.”

His knees buckle, and he’s quite sure he’d stagger and fall if the strong hand didn’t tighten and hold him in place. A second hand settles lightly at his waist, but it’s enough to hold him steady.

“Oh! Oh, that’s good then.”

Molly huffs out a pleased sigh, crossing her arms over her chest. When she speaks again, he can barely hear her over the sudden rushing in his ears.

“Well, now that that’s settled,” Molly looks around, “I’ll be going back downstairs. Merlin knows what they’re all up to down there. Albus, you should find Alastor soon—you know how impatient he gets when he’s kept waiting. Nymphadora dear, go with him, will you?” Tonks’ scowls briefly at her name, but the sour expression is quickly replaced by her usual happy grin.

“Yes, ma’am!”

Molly turns to them. “Sirius, I’ll expect you two will be going upstairs. Take all the time you need, but be down in time for dinner, alright? I don’t want to have to send someone to your room to call you downstairs.”

“Of course, Molly,” Sirius replies pleasantly. “We’ll be down well before dinner, I think.”

“Good,” Molly nods. She looks at him then, and he feels himself freeze. “You’ll be alright, Remus dear. I don’t want you running off now, you hear me? No sleeping in parks anymore.”

His tongue feels numb, and all he can do is nod. She accepts it with a satisfied smile. “Well, I’ll be going then.”

She turns and heads down the steps. Albus watches her go down, then turns to them placidly. 

“Good luck, my boys,” he says smiling. “You’ll be just fine. Dora?” He looks to Tonks’, and she walks forward.

“Right, Moody. C’mon, Headmaster, I’ll take you.”

“After you, my dear.”

Soon, it’s just him and Sirius. He stares dumbly up at Sirius, and the man smirks back at him.

“You can’t escape me now, Rem,” Sirius whispers, voice soft and smug. “I told you, I always get what I want.”

He turns, heading for the stairs, and calls out in his normal voice. “Come on, I’ll show you to my room.”

And he? He has no choice but to follow.

So much for enjoying the light rain, he thinks.


	7. 2.2 - In Catharsis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: none

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A nice, nostalgia-filled chapter for you guys. Enjoy! I teared up writing this.

* * *

_Once upon a time we had it all_

* * *

**2.2 - In Catharsis**

He leans against the doorpost, taking a moment to drink in the sight of Sirius stretched out on the brand new lilac couch. The man's dark hair is pulled up in a loose high bun, the shorter chin-length strands framing the sides of his pale face. He's wearing one of the old Led Zeppelin t-shirts he'd found lying around in his bedroom, untouched and abandoned—the dark grey of the fabric is stretched and faded, slightly loose yet a perfect fit for Sirius' now-slender frame, and with the lean figure and familiar curled up sprawl, it's nearly impossible to distinguish the man before him from the teenager hogging the red and gold couch in the Gryffindor common room twenty years ago.

He constantly has moments when the present blurs, overlapping with the past. It confounds him, playing tricks on his susceptible mind, and each one leaves him reeling and feeling impossibly weaker. This one is no different.

Which is why it takes him as long as it does to notice the conspicuously thick leather-bound book grasped tightly in Sirius' broad hands.

He takes in a sharp breath. He can catch a glimpse of the rich brown spine with it's golden swirls. The book is still closed, and Sirius is staring hard at the cover—brown leather, with the same swirls at the edges, and what he knows are the stars and moons and _Cherished Memories_ hand painted by Lily with her special gold glitter paint, with the shimmery gold smudge at the corner of the lettering.

Their album.

There's a slight rustle and a muffled scuffing of a booted foot, and he belatedly realises that the sounds come from him.

Sirius looks up over the back of the lilac couch, and his eyes tighten when they settle on him. Sirius shoots him a quick, brittle smile, and shifts, pressing his back harder against the side of the armrest.

"Thought I should try to look at these again," Sirius says, voice hoarse. "Don't think it's paid off. I haven't exactly made it past the front cover."

He shoots Sirius a wry smile. "I noticed."

Sirius smiles back with a sardonicism to rival his own. "Wanna join me? We can be useless together."

He shrugs. "Why not? One more time wouldn't hurt."

He knows first-hand the experience of going through the album—he owes a majority of past sleepless nights to depressed guilt-sessions induced by the phantom memories held within its pages. One more try certainly couldn't make a difference. Besides, sleeping besides each other, for the nights he allows himself to spend here, has opened up a whole plethora of nightmares, dry-sobbing, touch-resistance and subsequent awkward conversations between them. This can be yet another experience for them to cringe over. He cannot possibly sink any lower in Sirius' eyes, not by his estimates.

It's troublesome to lift his weight off the doorpost. He focuses on putting one foot in front of the other as he crosses over to half of the couch where Sirius' legs rest. As much as he doesn't really want to go through this vicious cycle again, he cannot bring himself to say no to Sirius, to let Sirius deal with the pain alone like he did all these years. He'll deal with the dreams and flashbacks when the time comes for them to be dealt with.

Sirius shifts, sitting up straight to give him room to sit, then scooting closer to him once he's made himself comfortable. Sirius flashes him another tentative, brittle smile and takes a deep breath, but makes no move to open the book.

"I picked the perfect environment for this, eh?" Sirius says to the room with a caustic smirk. There's a dangerous bite to the hoarse voice, and he feels the barest hint of a shudder at the accusation in the tone.

"Sirius, we did the best we could. At least the place is clean," he tries to placate the glaring man.

Sirius' gaze is fixed on the left of the two ornate glass-fronted cabinets flanking the fireplace. The showcase doesn't hold much—they had cleared out and tidied up everything in the room over the summer, including the cabinets, and now all that is displayed within are harmless little trinkets, of which there had been far too few amongst all the lethal artifacts.

"Sirius?"

Sirius' hard stare seems to go right through the glass, and he doesn't quite know whether the man is seeing the shiny silver tray placed front and centre on the middle shelf, or the ashen-looking shrivelled hand that had stood before in its place.

"Sirius!"

The man startles, then looks around, blinking himself back to the present. Sirius turns to him as if noticing him for the first time.

"Sorry, Rem," he runs a hand over the pulled-back strands of hair. "Like I keep saying, I never thought I'd be back here. Always hoped to leave this place for good, you know?"

"Yes," he sighs, "I know, Siri."

"And it's—it's—I don't know," Sirius continues, his focus now on the carved mantle above the fireplace. "We've all tried our best to change it up a bit, and the difference shows. But no matter what we try, it will never change the feel of this place. You know? It feels like the wretchedness of this house has been absorbed into the walls. This place has far too much history to cover up."

"Sirius."

Sirius glances at him, and he takes the opportunity to rest a hand lightly over white-knuckled fists. The tenseness in Sirius' wrist relaxes, and he automatically loosens his tight grip over the book in his hands.

"I know how hard this is for you," he says softly. "Sirius, I know. I remember what it was like for you when you ran away from here, and I haven't forgotten the number of times you swore you'd never come back. I—I don't fault you for being bitter. Not one bit. You're right about this house. The gloom of this place seems to have seeped into the walls, and it's leeching happiness from every room, even when there isn't any."

"Like a Dementor," Sirius nods, his whisper faint as a breath. He stiffens when he hears those haunted words, and his throat closes up.

"Like a Dementor," he echoes, his voice tight and choked.

They sit there in silence for a while. Sirius doesn't move a muscle, and neither does he. Physical contact between them has been awkward for the past few months, but somehow, the way his hand rests over Sirius' feels right. The skin of his palm doesn't feel stretched tight, and Sirius' skin doesn't feel searing hot. His senses aren't heightened, and his mind isn't working in overdrive, and the touch feels as it should be, warm and comforting.

He doesn't feel heartened knowing that it is just when Sirius is hurting that things have this illusion of normalcy.

Sirius _is_ right. No matter what they try, they might never be able to fully conceal the echoes of unhappiness lurking within this old house. Decades of pain and misery have been etched into its walls, and this place is far past redemption.

Grimmauld Place is beyond saving, but they've done the best they can.

So much work has been put into this room itself. When they had first commandeered the house for the Order's headquarters, the drawing room was hit the worst of the lot. It truly was in a contemptible state, and most of their cleaning work over the summer was dominated by this room itself. Molly had enlisted Harry and his friends to scour the large room from top to bottom. He'd gotten rid of the boggart in the writing desk, and helped the children clear most of the blood vials, snakeskins, toxic potions, shrivelled body parts, chained books, and the dainty little snuff boxes with its deadly powders.

They had cleaned out the fireplace, cleared out the pests, washed the big window, and neatly arranged the remaining sparse ornamental decorations in the big glass cases. He'd taken vindictive pleasure in rolling up the hideous tapestry of the Black family tree with Arthur and Tonks' help, and he'd himself carried the unwieldy thing and dumped it in the filthiest corner of the attic upstairs. Albus convinced Molly to bring over a set of curtains from the Burrow, and the thin, pale yellow curtains framing the window made the room look brighter and more airy.

The pale lilac couch is a new addition, one Tonks had chosen and brought on a whim. He'd brought in the coffee table as soon as the drawing room was set up, and the dark stained wood with its glass table top perfectly complements the heavier furnishings of the room. The little table had been the only furniture he'd been able to take with him when he moved out of his and Sirius' apartment after Azkaban, and he's been carrying it from flat to flat with each subsequent move since. He's uncommonly attached to their old table, the connection to their old life too strong to ignore, and the look on Sirius' face when he had first spotted the table was priceless in its sentimentality.

The room is near unrecognisable from what it was, and he's sure that it is far different from what even Sirius was used to when he lived here. It's their space, one they designed and made for themselves, and yet, the overhanging feeling of death and misery still clings to the air, reminding him every damn second that this place is wretched and uncomfortable to be around in. He envies Sirius for his strength every day, because he's not sure he'd be able to suffer through what Sirius does were he in his shoes.

Because the fireplace is warm and burning, and he's close enough to reach out and touch the bright flames, but his skin is pebbled from the phantom cold. The large window overlooking the street offers a lovely view of the sunset, the sky done in shades of blinding yellow and soothing orange, but the room is dark and haunted. The glass panes are shut, keeping out the biting winter chill, but the air still feels drafty around his neck and arms.

And he's uncomfortable enough sitting so primly on a brand new couch in this old, old house, without having years of painful memories to back up his discomfort.

What must it be like for Sirius, to live in the present and relive his past? What is it like for him to look at the silver tray in the glass case and imagine the shrunken hand in its place, to stare at the fireplace and see the remnants of his old Muggle posters burning within its flames, to glance at the ornate desk in the corner and remember his mother sitting there, answering dozens upon dozens of letters of invitations to the pureblood gatherings he detested so passionately?

He squeezes the hand under his without thinking. The hand flexes, then twists itself at the wrist till they're touching palm to palm. Sirius looks at him, just for a second, accepting his comfort with the barest hint of a smile.

"I can still see the broken glass there," Sirius says, whisper soft. He points to the entrance of the room with a tilt of his head, gesturing to the part of the wall they had found conspicuously blank. "There was a vase, ugly green thing perched on the glass stand. She kicked over the stand and threw the vase at my head."

He hears the sharp intake of breath before he realises that it's coming from himself.

"Sirius—"

"And that section of rug there," Sirius points underneath the window, "Charred to bits. Blackened the hardwood floor too. Don't know how she repaired the thing."

"Sirius—"

"And I keep feeling eyes boring into the back of my skull when I'm here—never mind that the bloody tapestry's gone, it's like I'd still find those creepy blank stares looking back at me if I turn around. All the ancestors, mocking me for bringing shame to the family."

Sirius turns to him, and he feels his throat close up. He hates to see the pain reflected in those grey eyes, hates that he knows just how much it's eating Sirius up inside. He hates that there's nothing he can do, not even after all this time.

"I remember," Sirius says, and he finds it hard to breathe. "She slashed at my name. Burned my face right off the tapestry. I'd be happy to join my favourite cousin out with all the _filth_ , she said. A—And Regulus—Reg—he—"

He squeezes Sirius' hand again, but it takes a few seconds for him to get himself together.

"That was the day I knew I'd lost him. Forever. Even if I'd tried harder, done more, he—he wouldn't walk away with me. He—his eyes—he hated me, Rem. I saw it in his eyes. He hated me."

He instinctively reaches out for Sirius, and Sirius leans into him instantly. There's a zing of static where their skin touches, but he doesn't let himself pull away, not now. He can't stand to see Sirius hurting, and this is all he knows to make Sirius feel better.

So he wraps his arms tighter around the shaking man, and in turn, Sirius clutches the leather-bound album tighter in his hands. He closes his eyes and lets himself melt into the hug, and with the unassuming blackness behind his eyelids, he can all too easily let himself believe that the past decade didn't happen, that this is just him and Sirius being themselves, and the sparks along his skin feel welcoming and familiar again. Just like old times.

He didn't know how much he needed this till this very second. He's been on edge for far too long lately, tiptoeing around the one person who's always felt like home before, and he needs the comfort almost as much as Sirius does.

Sirius—it helps Sirius too, he can feel it. The muscles beneath the skin of Sirius' neck relax under the feel of his palms, and his tight shoulders loosen and broaden to its usual wide span. There's a huff of breath against his collarbone, and he knows the exact second Sirius falls into the same dreamscape as him—memories of them younger, in this very position drawing comfort from the other, too many to count on two hands.

After a few, drawn-out minutes, he deems the silence comfortable enough to press forward again. He tries to keep his voice soft, and he hopes Sirius can hear him.

"Would you change it? If you had to do it over again, would you stay?"

Sirius is silent for a long while, and he's about to repeat his question, louder this time, when there's another huff against his neck.

"No, I wouldn't." He can feel the brush of lips against the hollow of his throat, warm breath cooling over his heated skin. "Wouldn't change a damn thing, Rem."

"Not even for Regulus?" he persists.

Sirius looks up at him, and the top of his dark head brushes firmly against the underside of his jaw as he does so. Sirius' eyes look troubled, warring with emotion; he looks to be fighting against himself, over and over, before something settles into his dark eyes. Sirius sighs, and he knows that Sirius finally understands, is finally able to admit what he'd spent decades avoiding.

"I—it wouldn't make a difference, would it? Reg was lost to me even before she disowned me. It was already too late."

He nods, clenching his jaw. He hugs Sirius tighter, waiting for the inevitable onslaught of emotions that is sure to come with his admittance. And then, after twenty-seven beats of his pounding heart, it comes.

He can do nothing but hold Sirius as years of guilt, pain and loss wrack his body with unceasing ruthlessness. He can feel silent tears seeping into his worn shirt, he can feel Sirius' grip on the leather album grow tighter and tighter where it is pressed against his chest. He pries the long fingers away from the cover as firmly as he can without hurting Sirius, wiggling the book out between them and setting it to his side, away from Sirius' desperate hold. There are impressions of Sirius' thumbs set into the leather, rising back up slowly as he looks away.

He feels stoic, utterly incapable of emotion, as he watches Sirius fall apart within his arms. Sirius is crying like he's never seen Sirius cry in his life, and he, the unfeeling, terrible person that he is, cannot do anything but watch Sirius' walls crumble around himself while he sits here like a—like a _monster_.

Sirius is mumbling now, between strangled gasps and quiet shudders, and slowly, gradually, he can pick out words and phrases within the unintelligible whispers. He tells himself to stay strong through the _too late, it was too lates_ and all the _it was never enoughs_ and the _whys_ spilling from Sirius' raw throat, but it is the _everything gone, all lost_ which breaks him, and the dam falls.

And then he's the one in tears, crying and shaking and clutching Sirius like a lifeline, joining the litanies of _whys_ and _I'm sorrys_ as they entangle in limbs and bodies till he cannot tell where his arms end and Sirius' begin. He'd promised himself to be strong for Sirius, but he isn't strong enough to succumb to the regret, not in the face of Sirius' own.

He should feel embarrassed at this display, the sense of detached shame he's prone to experiencing in times like these, but strangely, it feels cathartic. He's no stranger to grief—he's done the rounds, twice, thrice, numerous failed attempts to stave off the torment, to escape it. Isolation, drinking, nights at seedy bars, working overtime, avoidance, crying jags in the dead of night—he's done it all. And each night he's been left with but the clothes on his back and the pain of his burden a physical deadweight across his shoulders.

He had let the pain consume him, consume him and gnaw at what's left of him inside, because he had seen no way out. And yet, twenty minutes wrapped in Sirius' arms, talking and crying out to the silent ghosts of this old house has him feeling impossibly lighter, and now he's left wondering if the past fourteen years had all been a chilling dream.

He's needed the reprieve for so long, too long, and Sirius—he's quite positive that Sirius has never properly grieved for the ones he loved before this. It's just like Sirius to bottle up his pains, and were his mind able to comprehend the gravity of Sirius suppressing his emotions for so long, he knows he'd alternately be horrified and relieved that Sirius hadn't had to go through it alone like he'd been forced to.

The concept of time feels foreign to him—he can feel the minutes flying by as he distractedly watches the sun go down on the horizon, but time is also travelling slow as molasses, dragging him kicking and screaming from one second to the next. He feels like he's floating, light as a feather, and yet, the pounding of his head right between the eyes has never been more prominent. His eyes burn, and his nose feels stuffy and too big for his face, and he's tired himself out more by staying sedentary on the couch for less than an hour than the exhaustion he'd felt walking through the door after his gruelling weeks out on the field.

He watches the last sliver of the dark orange ball of sun fade as it sets, now obscured by the tall red brick building blocking his view, and he turns to see Sirius' eyes tracking the sky too. His face reflects the orange and red of the fiery sky before them, but Sirius looks just as miserable as he feels. And for once, he doesn't think about the shine of his black hair, or the set of his mouth, or even the look in his murky grey eyes. Because all he sees is the stubborn jut of a square chin and the resigned thrumming of his long fingers—all he sees is someone he used to call a friend.

It hits him then, a realisation he should've known at the start, and he feels utterly foolish for forgetting it all this time. Yes, he and Sirius were lovers, and yes, before that he was a Marauder, but that hasn't been the extent of their history together. Because between the phase where they were part of the Marauders and the phase where they were one half of a whole, they were _friends_. They hadn't just been part of the same group. No, the two of them had their own special bond, their own history and their own quirks and a whole era of them just learning each other and being together—because they had been best friends.

All this time, he's been under the impression that it's all or nothing. Subconsciously, maybe, but he's been terrified that if he lets go of what they have, if Sirius stops being his lover, he'll turn a stranger instead, or worse, an enemy. He's been clutching so desperately to Sirius lately, acting erratically and irrationally, and only succeeding in pushing Sirius further away. He'd lost faith in their friendship, to the point that he'd forgotten that there had ever been a _Sirius and Remus_ in the first place.

But it had been their friendship that had caused him to fall in love, their friendship that caused him to put so much trust in Sirius. It was their friendship that let him reveal so much of himself to Sirius, and learn so much about him in return. And it was their years of history and their closeness which got them the support of his parents and their friends and all the people they had respected and admired at a time when a relationship of their kind was still so frowned upon.

And, he realises with a start, it is _that_ which had just helped him find the release he's been desperate for, for the past decade and a half. He had tried everything under the sun and moon to escape his grief, to lighten his burden, but he had done it all alone. He'd had blankets and bottles and photographs marred by tear stains, bills and eviction notices and application rejections, Sirius' old watch and Lily's old letters and little Harry's favourite stuffed dog, but never the company of someone who understood.

But right then, when he'd wrapped his arms around Sirius and let him sob into his chest, and when Sirius had returned the favour, it had been the simple, satisfying occurrence of two old friends bonding over the shared grief of shared experiences.

It had been exactly what he'd needed, he realises. And it had worked.

It feels like a pivotal moment, this flash of remembrance. He doesn't know what it will hold in store for him—something wonderfully good or something disastrously bad—but he knows that this change in perception will soon change the direction of their relationship. And he's desperate, so desperate, aching to keep Sirius around as long as he can, in whatever measure Sirius can spare for him. He knows in his bones that even if the consequences of his actions might be glaring, he won't hesitate to take the chance, because he has to try.

There are so many new possibilities now, ones he'd never thought of before. He needs time to think over them.

He doesn't know how the album comes to be in his hand. He vaguely remembers saying something about how _knowing what we've lost will help us look at these memories in a new light,_ and seeing Sirius nod silently, boneless and exhausted and without a hint of argument. He remembers tracing the glittering letters on the cover, going over the curl of the M with his finger and recalling seeing the same dips and swirls in Lily's sprawling script, all neat lines and sharp angles in the many letters she'd sent him. He remembers mouthing the words, Cherished Memories, and imagines them spoken in Lily's soft, high voice.

He's gone through this book a thousand times, and he knows the smiles and shadows and colours captured in these photographs the way he knows the exact shade of Sirius' eyes in different lights.

So when his eyes blink back into focus and his gaze falls on the picture of Pettigrew snoring on his rumpled unmade bed, upside down and with his head hanging off the edge, he instantly knows that this is the first picture of Peter Pettigrew in the book so far, and the only reason he's been pulled out of his thoughts so early is because Sirius is shaking beside him.

He can't see Sirius' eyes fully at this angle, but they look to be glinting madly. Sirius' left hand is clenched into a tight fist, and his right hand is inches from the picture, fingers twitching as if they itch to rip the page right out of the book. He'd be afraid that Sirius is having a relapse if his first, instinctive thought isn't to calm him down.

He quickly rests his hand over the spasming wrist, and it settles under his touch. Sirius blinks once, then three times in succession to get rid of the itchy burn of staring unwaveringly at the photograph for so long.

"He was just a boy, Sirius," he finds himself saying. "He was as innocent as us. With everything we lost, we lost him too."

The words fall out of his mouth before he can take them back, but he finds that he agrees with what he says. He doesn't know why he's sticking up for Pettigrew, but he cannot deny the truth in his words. The snivelling adult falling at You-Know-Who's feet, wherever he may be right now—that man is a traitor and a coward, and he values the dirt under his boots more than he cares for the man. But the boy in the picture—he had been just as young as the rest of them, young and stupid and reckless and dumb. That boy had been loyal to them, and he'd been their friend.

Sirius swallows, hard, then forces himself to look at the photograph again. "Yeah," he says hoarsely, "I—I guess you're right."

His eyes trace over the young boy's sleeping form, over the moustache sketched over his face and the pants hanging off his forehead, and he finally lets himself call the boy Peter again.

"How long have you been staring at this?" he asks, never taking his eyes off the photograph.

"A while."

"I could have helped you sooner."

Sirius snorts softly. "Whatever was going on in that head of yours, you seemed to need it. Didn't wanna stop you."

He smiles. "Thanks, Siri."

When Sirius looks at him again, there's a shadow of a smile on his lips.

"You want to go back? Start again?"

Sirius points to the album, but he shakes his head. He doesn't need to turn the pages to know that the first photograph is the one of him and Sirius smiling in third year, the very first picture taken on James' very first camera. He knows that the second is the one of him holding up his potions essay, the first O grade he'd received all year. The third, of course, is of James' birthday, when they had celebrated in their dorm with the cake Mrs. Potter had owled and the treats they had snuck out from the dinner table. The fourth is of the same night, Sirius' arm over James' shoulders, James' hand in Sirius' hair, cream smeared all over their faces.

He knows each and every photograph in this album like the back of his hand.

He turns the page over to the next, and a sudden, quick laugh is punched out of Sirius when he sees the two photographs on either page. It's the ones he had captured, first James', then Sirius' photograph as they did a push-up each, in a circle of space cleared out on their cluttered dormitory floor for them. It was taken early in their fourth year, and both Sirius and James had taken great pleasure in boasting, with complete sincerity, to the witches in their year that they could do a hundred push-ups, when all they had really done was watch the photograph rewind a hundred times the night before.

Sirius turns the pages now, and they observe each photograph in complete silence. He watches the pictures unfold before his eyes with complete detachment. He's far from overwhelmed, like he usually is—he's so far from overwhelmed, that he actually feels quite numb. He almost doesn't believe that some of the pictures he's seeing are of him.

They must be about a third through the book, when suddenly, a particular snapshot catches his eye. It hasn't particularly stood out to him before, but for some reason, this time he's drawn to it. He stills Sirius' wrist when he's about to turn the page, and lets the memory wash over him.

He still remembers James, Sirius and Peter at the entrance to their dorm, standing side by side like the three Stooges, dripping and sticky with orange slime, honey and mustard. He remembers snatching the camera in a daring move completely unlike himself, snapping a quick photo while they were occupied with their sulking and groaning. The boys were shocked at his boldness, and he still recalls the awkward way he had stood by his bed, wondering if he had made a mistake, right up till James' surprised face widened into his typical slow grin. He and Sirius had clapped him on the back and hugged him in delight, proclaiming him one of them and getting him just as sticky in the process.

_"This is why you should listen to me."_

" _But it had almost worked, Remus!"_

" _I told you—we needed the time-delay spell! If you had just given me two more days to research it instead of rushing off to make a mess, it would have gone off perfectly!"_

" _You're right, you're right, we're sor—Rem, did you say 'we'?"_

" _What?"_

" _You said 'we'! Not 'you needed the time-delay spell', but 'we needed it'! You finally admit you're one of us!"_

" _Sirius, I don't know what you're talking about."_

" _Siri, you're right! Rem did say 'we'! Rem, you berk, you just accepted that you're just as much involved in our pranking as we are!"_

" _Of course I'm right, Jamie! Rem, come here, we gotta celebrate this."_

" _Wait, no, guys, get off. Argh, you gits, you're getting slime all over me! Sirius, stop that!"_

" _That's what you get for giving in to their madness, Remus. I expected you to hold out longer."_

" _Peter, shut up, you're just as bad as they are. Peter, stop hugging me!"_

"You were right," Sirius says beside him, "We should have listened to you. We'd have gotten into trouble a long time ago if it wasn't for you."

He smiles, huffs on a laugh. "Had you make sure you didn't get caught. Who else would I room with if you all got sent home? I'd have to hide my secret all over again."

Sirius smiles back, but his eyes are serious. "We wouldn't have let that happen. We wouldn't leave you behind."

"Oh? So you'd find a way to get me expelled too?"

"No, Rem," Sirius laughs. "We'd have found a way to stay."

He blinks, and lets out another breathy laugh, shaking his head at Sirius' earnestness. He lets go of Sirius' wrist, lets him turn the page, settles back against a sharp angled shoulder and lets himself sink into the memories.

Now that the floodgates have opened, with each new photograph revealed, his mind flashes back to the moments they had captured. James with his prized Quidditch broom, Sirius dancing around like a loon, him reading his favourite book by the window, Peter surrounded by his breakfast foods smuggled from the kitchens.

With each new picture, his mind takes him back, and he once again finds himself drifting to the past, floating between dreams and reality, and he's tethered to the present only by the constant touch of Sirius' strong hands along his skin.

James is talking to him in the next photo, the both of them sitting on his bed. James has his hands fisted in his wild hair, and he looks utterly exasperated—which hadn't been new to him, what with the company he kept—and he can recall the exact words of their exchange, syncing up with the frantic movement of James' lips.

" _I'm allowed to be upset!"_

" _Of course you are, James, but that doesn't mean you get to blame Snape for it!"_

" _But it_ is _the greasy git's fault! I just_ know _that he's the one feeding my darling Lily flower with all those nasty lies about us. Why else won't she go out with me?"_

" _Oh, I don't know, maybe because you tried to take off your shirt to get her to 'preview the merchandise'? James, your methods are completely unorthodox, and frankly, they aren't going to get you anywhere. You don't charm a girl with nudity, not if you want an actual relationship with her!"_

" _Fine, I'll try a poem next time. Remus, you'll help me write it?"_

" _Oh, please don't."_

" _Shut up, Sirius, you weren't invited to this discussion."_

" _Sirius."_

" _Oh, come on, Rem, you know his poems are terrible! Peter, come on, help me out here."_

" _Nuh, uh, don't you drag me into this."_

" _Yeah, Sirius, this is between me and Remus. Peter wasn't invited. You weren't either."_

" _Petey, c'mon—"_

" _My hands are over my ears, I can't hear a thing you're saying. I don't wanna know."_

" _I'm surrounded by idiots, I swear."_

" _Aww, don't pout, Rem, we're your favourite kind of idiot."_

Then there's Sirius whooping in triumph near the lake on the patch of grass and mud where they held all their impromptu picnics, Peter stress-eating in the corner of the frame.

" _She said yes! Meadowes said yes! Take a good look, mates, because three dates down the line I'll be a man remade. Yes!"_

" _Oh, gross, Sirius! Don't talk about Dorcas like that!"_

" _Unbelievable. Sirius is obviously only in it for the shagging, and he gets a yes? What about me? I've been tagging Evans for years! Why don't I get a yes?"_

" _That's because you, Jamie, are a half-wit."_

" _Oi!"_

" _I, on the other hand, am a sexy, sexy beast who has a date with Dorcas Meadowes this weekend because I am just that—"_

" _Peter, what's wrong? You're too quiet."_

" _Oh, um, it's nothing, Remus. I'm fine."_

" _Hmm, yeah, Rem's right, you've been too quiet, Petey. What's up?"_

" _There's nothing the matter, James, I'm fine—"_

" _No, you're not, Pete. You sure you're alright? You look pale."_

" _Sirius, I—"_

" _And you're stress-eating. Tell us what's wrong."_

" _I—Fine, I just—I may have fancied Dorcas a little, just the tiniest bit. But you're going out with her, Sirius, and that's fine! It'll be alright, I'm used to it."_

" _What? Why didn't you tell me? You've been hearing me plot to ask her out all week!"_

" _I didn't want to cause a riot. You like her, Sirius, and she's more likely to go for you than someone like me anyway, so there was no point in saying anything."_

" _That's a load of bull, that's what it is. Someone like you. Hah!"_

" _You're a good guy, Peter. Why would she not like you?"_

" _Yeah, Pete, you're awesome!"_

" _I'm gonna go cancel right now. And you know what, Petey? I'll try to get you a date with her."_

" _What! No, Sirius, you wanted—"_

" _Shut up, Pete. My manly status can wait. First, we need to get our boy here a date."_

Peter had looked ecstatic when he had left for his date. He remembers helping Peter pick out the perfect shirt, James doing his hair, and Sirius pinching his cheeks, beaming just as broad as Peter's wide grin. The date had gone terribly, and Dorcas didn't speak to Peter again, but he still offered to do Sirius' Charms homework for the entire week.

"How can a boy who offered to do your homework without being asked go on to betray every one of his best friends?" he questions aloud.

"I don't know," Sirius replies quietly. "What changed him? What made him do what he did?"

His gaze falls on Sirius. "Do you think it was us? That we somehow pushed him to it?"

"I don't know." Sirius breathes deeply. "Maybe it was a little of everything, including us. You remember how people treated him. They called him stupid and useless and undermined him at every turn. Merlin knows I haven't always been good to him. James could be cruel too, sometimes. You're the only one who always treated him right."

"You were a good friend where it mattered, Sirius. You always did stand up for him."

"I hate that he hurt you," Sirius mutters. "You were always good to him. If he should have fought for anyone, he should have fought for you."

"Sirius—"

"Wish I knew what pulled him to them. What they offered him that we couldn't."

He smiles sadly. There's a lot he wishes he could change, and the regrets keep piling up every day.

"Guess we'll never know."

Sirius laughs, a sharp, recrimating sound, and together, they turn the page again. Peter's anxious wide eyes are covered up now, hidden, but he'll always remember the innocence in them, and he'll always remember this moment, asking himself what he'd done to mess things up for his friend.

_Guess he'll never know._

Pages keep turning, the photographs keep changing. There's James in the common room, staring with a love-sick expression into the distance, Peter playing the banjo, Sirius surrounded by Gryffindor girls out on the grass, yet staring longingly where he sits a few feet away, reading under the shade of the tree's wide branches. They weren't together back then, and when Peter had shown him the snapshot he'd clicked so expertly, he refused to believe the expression on Sirius' face for what it was.

Then there's him, on his uncharacteristically messy bed, with library books scattered all around him over the untucked blankets, scribbling frantically on a wrinkled parchment. That had been the first and last time he had ever slacked on a potions assignment, and he'd yelled at his friends for an hour straight for distracting him with their pranking problems when he was supposed to be doing his research.

" _Never again! You hear me? Never again!"_

" _Rem, we're sorry, okay? Geez, mate, lighten up. We've been apologising for an hour already!"_

" _No, I will_ not _'lighten up'. Do you want to know why I get these assignments done and out of the way as early as I do? Do you? Because I'm bloody useless at potions, that's why! My written work is all that gets me through Potions class, and I can't afford to bring down my average! So the next time you dolts muck up a spell and end up talking in riddles or spilling truths,_ go bother someone else _!"_

" _We really are sorry, Remus. We feel bad. We didn't mean to make you worry."_

" _Thank you, Peter. This is why you're my new favourite."_

" _I tried searching through the texts in the library myself, but I couldn't find anything to help."_

" _I know, Peter. You did your best. I'm not mad at you; I'm mad at these two imbeciles who thought it'd be_ funny _to test an experimental prank spell on_ themselves _!"_

" _Sorry, Rem."_

" _And you! Don't think I haven't noticed that you haven't said a word so far, Sirius! I've spent night and day scouring the library to get you off those damn limericks, and what do I get from you? Nothing! Not a sorry, not a thank you, nothing! I can't believe how ungrateful you are, you selfish, reckless prat!"_

" _Oh, Merlin, that's so sexy."_

" _I have a good mind to—what?"_

" _We should have done this sooner. Damn, why didn't I think of it before?"_

" _What are you—"_

" _Aaand, that's our cue. C'mon, Peter, let's give these two some room to talk."_

" _Wait, you can't just leave! I wasn't done! James Potter, come back here!"_

" _Godric, you're hot when you're mad."_

" _Right, I'm coming, James. Remus, Sirius, you two had better get your act together. And Sirius, for the love of Merlin, please don't start snogging him when I enter this room again. I don't need to see that yet."_

Of course, the next picture is the one where Sirius grabs him and snogs his face off, with Peter covering his eyes at the door, because Sirius was a git who loved to rile Peter up, and James was the pervert who wanted to get it on reel. He still doesn't know how to feel about seeing their first kiss captured on parchment, but now, he appreciates it.

The arrangements in the pictures change then, vaguely discernable, easily unnoticeable. He and Sirius stand closer together, close enough to hold hands if they wanted to. They look more comfortable together, they have more physical contact, and their group looks more tight-knit. When James is enacting their game to Sirius in the Hospital Wing, all flamboyant gestures and excited voices, he's there two beds over, laughing at James and scolding him for hitting Sirius' broken leg with his propelling arms. When he's in the common room teaching Transfiguration to Peter, there's Sirius in the back, smiling at him goofily.

Soon enough, their relationship becomes more evident in the photographs. There's him and Sirius, curled up on his bed, his head against Sirius' chest, Sirius' arms around his waist. There's him and Sirius, fighting over the last cracker on the floor of their room, and Peter's hand sneakily reaching out for the cracker and the last of the cheese cubes in the corner of the frame. There's him and Sirius studying together, him and Sirius walking along the edge of the lake, him and Sirius arguing, in James' words, like an old married couple.

All the while, _his_ Sirius, alive and in the flesh, is sitting right beside him—holding his hand, arm around his shoulder, breath on his neck. He didn't imagine that going through this reminder of their past, of their seemingly perfect relationship, would feel so relaxed and easy; not with the way their current relationship feels like it is falling apart.

Then comes the Animagi success, and the next picture is the one of his three animal friends in their dorm—Prongs, standing tall and proud, long antlers entangled with the remnants of _his_ favourite lavender blanket, Padfoot, stretched out placidly on the scratched wood flooring, chewing on the torn remains of _his_ white sheet, and Wormtail chasing his own tail round and round, smack dab in the middle of the two large animals. He'd flashed this photograph at them every time their attitudes got too overbearing, and it had always worked like magic. Sirius used to say that he was getting payback for his ruined bed covers, but in truth, he liked to see them silent and squirming too much to let go of his leverage.

The pictures and memories fly by after that. Him and Padfoot, playing catch on the grass with a makeshift disc. Wormtail, riding on Padfoot's back as he runs round and round in their tiny dorm bathroom. James, jumping up on the table and announcing to the Great Hall that he's planning to take up deer rights and that _anyone who even touches venison can fight him, thank you very much_.

They're older now. Clean cut lines, sharper angles. There's a photograph of him and Sirius perched on one of their narrow dormitory windows, facing each other with their legs tangled together in the middle. They're watching the dark sky, a book in his hand and a sketchpad in Sirius', entranced by what he knows is the shooting star streaking into the night.

" _Padfoot, look. Make a wish."_

" _Don't need to make one, Rem. I have everything I need right here."_

Sirius is serenading him for his birthday, drunk and loud and purposefully off-key. His boyfriend is viciously mutilating his favourite George Jones number to the audience of James' cackling, Peter's desperate begging for the safety of his ears, and his fumbling, stuttering attempts to get Sirius to stop, blush bright cheeks and fond, besotted eyes.

" _And now that I've fooound you—"_

" _Sirius, stop!"_

"— _new horizons I seeee—"_

" _Sirius, my ears are about to bleed out!"_

"— _come take my hand, Moony—"_

" _Pads, you don't even like country music!"_

"— _and walk through this world with me."_

" _Okay, okay, I get it, you don't like George Jones. For the love of Merlin, Sirius, stop!"_

Lily turns up in the pictures slowly, starting off at the edge of the shots, working her way to the centre of their little group. Lily and James, curled up in the Astronomy tower in broad daylight, Lily and Sirius, arguing over the best way to block a spell, Lily hugging Peter when he gets rejected by Judy Griffith, Lily and him, studying together in the library.

Their last week at the castle—him and Sirius out by the Black Lake in their corner, slow dancing in the moonlight to the sound of his heartbeat and Sirius' soft humming. Only their silhouettes can be made out in the long-range shot, but there's no mistaking Sirius kissing his cheek.

_"Moony, I love you. I couldn't imagine my future without you now that I have you."_

The morning before they leave, the four of them grinning, arms entangled and leaning into each other, as Lily takes their last ever photograph of them as students of Hogwarts.

Then they're out in the real world, and it's all sporadic pictures of them at bars and each other's apartments. Lily, grinning broadly as he gulps down a tumbler with more Firewhiskey in it than any of their glasses. Sirius and James, with their acceptance letters to the Auror Academy clutched tightly to their chests. Peter, smiling at his old mother, holding a box of cookies for her.

There's James, standing surrounded by shiny rings, his shirt untucked and hands fisted in his hair as he rants about finding the perfect ring to Sirius, who's behind the camera. Him, sipping tea and reading the morning paper in their kitchen on a random summer bright day. Lily, eyes wide and excited as she shows off the back of her left hand to him proudly, the studded diamonds on her ring glinting against the light. James and Lily sleepily hugging on the couch in his and Sirius' flat, their legs resting up on the glass and wood coffee table he still cherishes.

They join the Order, and it shows over time. They look tired and haggard, him especially so. Peter stands further away from the rest of them in the pictures now, never quite looks them in the eyes. He starts to show up less and less in the photographs, most of his time spent away on recruitment missions.

James and Lily's wedding. Sirius, taking his role as best man very seriously, had organised everything from the officiator to the flower decorations. There's red and white everywhere—the small arch, the little bands of flowers on their wrists, the coral red and silver tie knotted neatly at Sirius' neck. James, with his hair smoothed back properly for once, gold watch at his wrist gleaming bright in the sunlight, and his adoring hazel eyes which shine even brighter. Lily, wearing her mother's old wedding dress, resplendent in satin and lace and ivory beads, walking down the aisle on his arm as he leads her to James. The five of them, later at the reception, arms around each other and exuberance in their grins.

He's never been past this page, though he does know what comes next. _Harry_. He never could bring himself to look at the memories of Harry when he was alone, because while he could choose to work past his ignorance and his friends' deaths and Sirius' betrayal, he couldn't look at the memory of his unofficial godson and ignore his failings in his attempts to find his cub. But Sirius is here with him now, and Harry is safe, relatively safe, and he can push away a problem only so much before he gives in.

Sirius squeezes his hand once, twice, before he lets go. Sirius smiles at him, soft and nostalgia drunk, and he has no choice but to smile back. Sirius turns the page over, and he has to choice but to look.

And he sees everything. Lily announcing her pregnancy, James spinning and twirling her round and round and round, Sirius beaming like an excited child. Lily at various stages of pregnancy, smiling and frowning in alternate moments; the two of them messily eating pizza on the couch with pineapple and mushrooms and all the works while James stares at them, equal parts gobsmacked and disgusted. Lily handing Sirius the ultrasound, James declaring Sirius the godfather. Lily opening presents of cribs and baby blankets and rattles on her birthday, pouting dramatically because none of them are for her.

James, at the hospital, holding a little blue bundle delicately in his arms and cheesily mouthing _it's a boy_. Sirius leaning over the baby, the first one to run to James, looking as excited and awed as his best friend. Him, with his smudged clothes and clean hands, rushed in from his latest field mission, stroking Harry's tiny cheek tenderly.

Baby photos, with James and Lily in each photograph. Him and Sirius, when they visit or babysit. There's bottles and cribs and Snitch-themed chimes, Harry's bright green eyes against his own amber ones, Harry's chubby little fists clutching at Sirius. The baby sleeping on his chest on the couch; Padfoot's large frame curled near the fireplace, with Harry's tiny body sprawled against his side.

The pictures continue till Harry's six-month birthday. Lily had given them the album on their anniversary, which had been a few weeks after the party. His eyes and hands trace the last photograph in the book, Sirius and him holding Harry in his new fluffy onesie. The little stuffed antlers sewn on the hood poke at their faces, and Harry's gummy smile had never looked so bright. He wonders when Harry lost that innocent, easy grin. Was it the day his parents died? Was it when his Aunt and Uncle started to treat him like he was less than human? Was it when he gave up on making friends? Was it when people started trying to kill him?

He still sees it sometimes, Harry shooting a smile bright and broad, there and gone like the flash of a camera. He sees it far too seldom for his comfort, and it is almost always directed at either his two best friends or at Sirius.

A pale, longer finger joins his, hovering over the photograph like it's afraid to touch. "I know what you're thinking, Remus."

"What?" he whispers.

"I know you. I know you tried your best to find him. I don't blame you for failing, and if you tell him the truth, neither would he."

His breath catches. "You don't know that, Sirius."

Sirius snorts. "I don't? Rem, he tried to give me a chance when he couldn't even be sure that I wasn't a _murderer_. I had mucked things up spectacularly, and I have no one to blame for my failures more than myself. But you? You genuinely tried your best, Rem. If I know you, you didn't eat or sleep till you scoured England for every possible place Harry could be. You can't be blamed for not thinking of Petunia— _I_ certainly wouldn't expect to find Harry anywhere near Lily's wretched sister."

"I should have tried harder."

"What more could you have done? You couldn't have searched the whole of Europe, Rem. And you had no way to sort through the Muggle families. Besides, if Albus was behind Harry's concealment, there were high chances you wouldn't have gotten anywhere without his help. No one can find out anything that the man doesn't want found. Dumbledore's _secrets_ have secrets."

He chuckles wryly, against his will. "True, that."

"And what's more, I've seen the way Harry looks at you. He adores you, Rem. You avoiding him is gonna hurt terribly. Much more than your perceived slight against him."

"Sirius, what are you even saying? He doesn't adore me. You're the one he admires, not me."

"That's not true. He likes you just as much as he does me. He's told me all about how you taught him his Patronus, you know. Saved his life, he says. And apparently, you're the first one to talk about Lily, which he's grateful for. The kid doesn't hear about his mother much, and he needed it."

Sirius looks at him in that reverent way he used to revel in, but now he just feels woefully inadequate.

"You always did have a knack for knowing what someone needs, Rem," Sirius says softly, "and you were there for him when he needed you, when _I_ couldn't be there for him. Give yourself some credit. You did good."

He chuckles again, just as sardonically as before, and rubs his palms over his eyes, dragging them down his face.

He doesn't say a thing in reply, and Sirius doesn't push him for an answer.

"You'll be there on Friday, won't you?" Sirius asks him instead. "He'll want to see you."

He stares back, puzzled. "What's Friday?"

Sirius looks at him incredulously, and he has the vague niggling feeling that he's missing something.

"Harry's coming home! Didn't you know?"

He blinks. "What."

Sirius stares at him in consternation. "For Christmas, Rem! The Christmas holidays? In two days? Dumbledore arranged it, remember? I've been going on about it for ages."

He blinks again, growing just the slightest bit alarmed. "That's this Friday?"

Where had the time gone? How was it Christmas already?

He wonders if he's been feeling so blase about life lately that he's paid no mind to one of his favourite holidays of the year, or if it's just the sleep-deprivation talking.

" _Yes_ , Rem. Christmas is coming up soon. How did you not realise? I decorated the house two weeks ago!"

"I—I'm sorry, Sirius, I didn't even notice. The house was dark and I didn't even look around—"

Sirius looks concerned now. "Rem, you haven't been home for two weeks. You look like you haven't even _slept_ in two weeks. I get that you're busy, but it's not like you to forget a date. What's going on with you? Dumbledore's been working you too hard."

He sighs, turning his gaze to the fireplace and looking into the flames. "No, it's—don't blame Dumbledore. These things need to be done. I just finished up the final round of negotiations with the Perthshire pack in Scotland."

He sighs again, and it sounds bone-weary even to his own ears. "The actual negotiations were bad enough, but the pack was a nightmare to track all the time. They kept moving around, making it tough for me to find them, and their _leader_ was—never mind."

"That sounds terrible, Rem. Did the negotiations at least go alright?"

"Yeah, they, uh—they signed the agreement Albus drew up. They're our unofficial allies now. Not much in the grand scheme of things, but… we take what we can get, right?"

"Yeah," Sirius breathes tiredly, squeezing his hand. "That's all we can do."

"It's alright." he reassures, both Sirius and himself. "It's over, and if the holidays are coming up soon, Dumbledore might just let us catch a break and send us on less assignments."

Sirius scoffs. "Do you honestly think he'll go for that?"

He chuckles quietly in reply, and that's all the answer Sirius needs.

A thought flashes through his mind, and he chances a quick glance at Sirius before directing his eyes to the fire again. "You want me to decorate this room for you? Add a few streamers, maybe a tree? I can conjure something up quick."

He can feel Sirius grow tense at his shoulder. " _No_ —uh, no. I didn't do anything here for a reason. I can't bear to touch anything in this room."

He lets himself smile at Sirius. "I know. I just wanted you to have the option."

"Thanks, Rem." Sirius smiles back, then hesitates. "If Harry wants to, maybe you two could do it together? I can't say no to him, I don't think."

He laughs, shaking his head. "Of course I will. And before you ask again, yes, I'll be there Friday. You're not that subtle, Sirius."

Sirius smiles, pleased. "Guess I still have much to learn from you then."

His grin softens, and seeing Sirius smile at him so freely makes him feel light-headed.

"Guess so."

Sirius is leaning closer then, or maybe it's him. He can see Sirius' eyes burn, fond sweetness turning into something possessive, and he wants nothing more than to get lost in them.

It's all he sees, grey eyes and silver flecks and black, black pupils, holding reflections of burning embers in their depths, positively _sinful_ , and he's drowning, free-falling, with nothing to hold him back, just the slightest bit closer and he can _taste—_

" _So_ sorry to disturb nasty master and half-breed mongrel sir, but Great Master Phineas Black sir wishes to speak with you. Great Master Phineas Black sir is waiting."

He pulls away from Sirius, his mind spinning. They turn as one to the house-elf, both in equal states of shock.

Kreacher stands before them in his dirty tea towel, his wrinkled skin looking waxy in the firelight. Kreacher has his usual churlish look pasted on his face, and his large coal black eyes glint with smugness. He opens his mouth to speak, but finds himself speechless, his mind still utterly blank.

"Great Master Phineas Black sir should not be kept waiting, nasty Master Sirius. Oh, what would mistress say if she sees no-good lousy son Sirius disrespecting the Great Master Phineas Black sir, consorting with half-breed—"

" _Kreacher, shut the bloody hell up!_ You will not insult us!"

"Sirius!" he exclaims, shocked. "Don't yell at Kreacher!"

Sirius is shaking, his hands spasming repeatedly, and when he gets off the couch and draws himself to his full height, his eyes glint with cruelty.

"I will not be belittled by a house-elf," Sirius states evenly, but his voice is low, dangerous. "You will keep your comments to yourself, Kreacher, and you will never call Remus by that name again. Do you understand me?"

Kreacher glares back mutinously under his hooded eyes.

" _Do you understand me, Kreacher?!"_

"Sirius!" he yells, finding himself standing up as well. "Stop it!"

Sirius' shoulders tighten further at his words, and he doesn't move his stern gaze away from the house-elf.

"Sirius, please."

He tries to pull Sirius away, but Sirius stands firm. He's still tugging at his hand when Kreacher drops his gaze to the floor, mumbling a quiet _yes, master_ from the corner of his cracked lips.

"Good." Sirius' nose flares. "Now get out."

"Yes, master."

Kreacher Disapparates with a jarring pop, but Sirius still stares at the empty space where Kreacher stood.

He feels oddly frantic. His heart is still pounding in his chest, and his mind echoes the words _Sirius, please_ like a mocking drum against his temples.

He takes a few calming breaths, and decides to move on for now. He should discuss this episode with Sirius at a later time, when he has a clear head and can pinpoint the exact emotions he's feeling. But first, they have to see what Phineas desires.

"Let's go."

Sirius stands there, still as a statue, making no move to leave. He feels his temper flare again, and he struggles to restrain himself.

"Sirius," he bites out evenly, "let's go."

Sirius surfaces from his haze, unclenching his fists and looking around before his eyes settle on him. "Right," Sirius mumbles, distracted. "The portrait."

He's the first to walk out the room, his robes swishing at his feet, and he can hear Sirius following behind him.

"You just can't help yourself, can you, Sirius?" he mutters to himself angrily as he sweeps out the door.

"I'm sorry, what?"

He halts in his steps for but a second before walking on. He hadn't meant for Sirius to overhear him, but he can't bring himself to back down now.

"You just _have_ to hurt someone to make yourself feel good."

Sirius' footsteps speed up, stomping louder, till he finds a hand on his arm and himself turned around and facing the man in the next second.

"Remus, what are you on about? Where did this come from?"

He scoffs, folding his arms. "Don't play dumb, Sirius. It doesn't suit you."

Sirius frowns. "Is this about what I said to the house-elf? I don't get it. Why are you so angry about that?"

" _Yes_ , Sirius, I was talking about the way you acted with Kreacher. Why do you have to be so cruel to him? Why can't you just be polite?"

" _Polite?_ Remus, the bloody thing insulted me, insulted _you_. It's all he ever does. He deserved everything I said to him."

He sees red. He doesn't even know where this is coming from, but he gives into the urge to stand toe to toe with Sirius and hiss into his face.

"Don't you for _one_ minute, Sirius Black, pretend that you don't do the same. For every insult he throws at you, you throw one back. Don't deny that you're usually the first to start it."

Sirius looks startled, but the expression isn't remotely satisfying to him.

"What happened to _if you want to know what a man is like, take a good look at the way he treats his inferiors_?" he continues, incensed. "Is this the lesson you want to teach Harry? Treat your inferiors well until they commit the first slight?"

Sirius' face looks black, but he's past caring. "Don't you bring Harry into this," Sirius hisses warningly.

"Then stop hurting others, Sirius! How long will you keep doing this? I've told you to be nice a thousand times, but you just never learn."

At his scathing statement, Sirius' expressive face moves past shock, anger and upset, settling into a myriad of emotions which unnerve him. He's shaking, trembling with something far more than fury, something he doesn't know enough to put his finger on, but Sirius seems to read him like an open book.

"This isn't about Kreacher," Sirius settles on saying, but it's enough to make his face shutter.

"Sirius—"

"No, stop. I know it isn't. Tell me what's bothering you."

"I don't know."

He does know.

Sirius is right—he's never had such an explosive reaction before, not to Sirius' cruel moments. He's used to them, and he knows Sirius enough to know that his harshness is a part of him, and not something that goes away. He focuses instead on acting the peacemaker, fixing problems, and stopping Sirius from going too far.

That's where the problem lies. He's always been secure in the knowledge that he's able to stop Sirius from going over the line, that he's always able to make Sirius see sense. Every time he's not around, Sirius is off doing something reckless, but when he _is_ around, he is always, always able to temper Sirius' impulses with just a call of his name.

Except this time.

This time, he did more than call Sirius' name. He told Sirius to stop, he tried to pull him away, he _pleaded_ with Sirius. He has never had to say _please_ to Sirius a day in his life, not to get Sirius to listen to him. This had to have been the first time he'd said it, and Sirius hadn't listened. Not to him.

And it _burns_.

Sirius used to say that he listened because he loved and respected him. Even when they were just friends, Sirius always, always listened. What changed this time? Does Sirius not respect him anymore? Is he not important to Sirius now?

"I know I did something to hurt you, Rem, but I don't know what it is. _Tell me._ Tell me so that I can make it better."

He had one role in their relationship. One role, and he did it well. It made him feel useful, like he was contributing more to their relationship than his werewolf stigma and his caravan of issues. If he couldn't perform his only role, what else was he good for?

"I'm fine," he says, clipped. "Let's just see what Phineas wants."

He makes to turn around, but he feels a hand clutching at his arm again.

" _Remus_ ," Sirius calls to him, and his voice sounds hoarse and broken. There's something in those shining silver eyes which tempt him to spill everything, dump all his insecurities on Sirius' unsuspecting shoulders, but he cannot bring himself to further splinter their already fractured relationship.

"Let it go, Sirius," he says tiredly, and watches unprepared, as a spark in Sirius' silver eyes fades and dies. Sirius' mouth firms into a thin line and his raw expression closes off instantly, and he's left reeling, unsure of what he did wrong as he watches Sirius shoulder past him and walk away.

His last thought, before they reach Phineas Nigellus Black's portrait, is that maybe Sirius isn't the only one who excels at pushing people away without even trying.

Phineas tells them about the attack on Arthur in the Department of Mysteries.

 _Voldemort's own snake,_ he says. _Three bites,_ he says. _Being moved to St. Mungo's as they speak,_ he says. _They should prepare for company soon,_ he says.

Phineas tells them about the blood loss, and he thinks, _Arthur doesn't deserve it._ The more Phineas describes the attack, the more he thinks, _it should have been me._

Two minutes later, the Weasley children Portkey with Harry to the basement kitchen. He and Sirius are waiting, deathly silent, and he can only watch as the tears pool in Ginny's eyes, as Ron blinks out of shell-shock, and as Fred and George share stone-sharp looks.

Harry opens his eyes then, dark green and scared and confused and so, so haunted, looking like he's seen a ghost or worse, like he's killed a man and turned him into one _,_ and while his first thought was _he's too young to look like that,_ his second is, _I wonder how much of that is in my own eyes._


End file.
